


The World Is Ugly

by HarleyMarie (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: American Civil War, Angst, Confederate States of America - Freeform, Death, Gen, Lots of research went into this, On Hiatus, Really sorry about some of it, Torture, Tries to be historically accurate, Violence, angst everywhere, repost from ff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 00:12:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 48,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4369730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/HarleyMarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the rise of the Confederate States of America, Alfred F. Jones must make his hardest decision yet: To let his people go, or to wage a bloody war that is ultimately against himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Year It All Began

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct repost from my FF account. Please disregard any mistakes or goofs that I missed.

_It’s hard to win… When the enemy is yourself._

  
-x-x-x-

  
The sun was shining pleasantly on this Monday morning. An unusually warm breeze for this time of year meandered through the trees, whose budding branches added a flowery aroma to the wind. With better weather than could be wished for, it was quite unlike him to remain indoors on such a day as this. However, it could not be helped, considering the circumstances.

  
Despite the glare from the sunlight making it difficult to see out of the window, he decided that this was as good a view as any of the proceedings below. Even from this height above the masses, he could still hear the humming of thousands of voices, all excitedly talking at once. And while all of the souls below him were eager to catch a glimpse of the soon-to-be sixteenth President of the United States, his heart was heavy.

  
Never in his life had he had to deal with so much unrest among the people. He hadn’t slept in days. He could always hear them, screaming at each other about injustice and lack of freedom. No matter what anyone proposed, it was immediately shot down and deemed unfair. No one was innocent in this though, and the escalation of accusations and threats had been growing steadily over the past few years and months, all leading up to today.

  
The tragedy of December and the last four months had rocked him to the core, and he was almost at a loss for what to do. Here was his salvation.

  
Today, he hoped, would see an end to it all. Although he knew, in his heart of hearts, that that was impossible. Today was only the beginning.

  
A hush fell over the crowd below, and the man in the window straightened. This was the moment he had decided would either make or break the nation beyond repair.

  
He watched closely as Abraham Lincoln stepped up to the podium, where the Chief Justice awaited him, Bible in hand. There, he placed his left hand on the Bible, raised his right hand, opened his mouth, and clearly so that even the man in the window could hear, he said:

  
“I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.”

  
His hand still on the Bible, he closed his eyes and declared with emotion, “So help me God.”

  
The man in the window sighed heavily as a roar erupted from the horde below. If anyone had been in the room with him, they would have heard the man whisper, “God has deserted this land. There is no help to be found.”

  
The man in the window continued to watch as Lincoln delivered his Inaugural Address. He remained emotionless, face as unreadable and hard as stone. Even after Lincoln deserted the podium, the man in the window did not turn away, but he only took to watching the people below.

  
A knock sounded at the door some time later.

  
“Yes?” the man asked, only half interested now. His attentions were focused on one lady in particular, who had deemed it appropriate to wear an obnoxiously large hat covered in flowers. It appeared that she was busy shooing off bees that kept wanting to land on her head.

  
“The President is here to see you.”

  
The man did not face the door, but only replied, “Send him in.”

  
The knob turned, and the door squealed open. Footsteps. The squeal of the door as it shut.

  
Neither of them moved for a full ten seconds. The man at the window finally pulled himself away from watching the lady below to adjust his suit jacket, then a piece of blonde hair that had fallen into his eyes. He turned, his right hand extended, to face the President.

  
“May I be the first to congratulate you on your inauguration, Mr. President.”

  
“Thank you,” Lincoln said with a warm smile as he shook the man’s hand. “However, I do not believe I have officially had the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

  
“My apologies, sir.” The man smiled in return, only it was half-hearted and heavy. “Alfred F. Jones, Personification of this great Union.”

  
-x-x-x-

  
_Four months earlier…_

  
Marion Harris, or better known by her people as the personification of the state of South Carolina, sat at her writing desk in a corner of her parlor, weeping. Her silent sobs racked her small frame with every breath she drew in, and her fingers curled into her disheveled hair, trying to grasp at something, anything.

  
They just wouldn’t stop. The screaming voices of her people, constantly calling for her to do something. Anything. As if she could do anything with them giving her not even a moment’s respite so she could think.

  
She had been sitting at this desk, paper and pen before her and ready to write, for two hours. However, every time she picked up her pen, she couldn’t accurately put to paper what she wanted to say. She had lost count of how many drafts she had balled up and thrown angrily to the side. To be entirely frank, she was sick and tired of dealing with everyone. All she wanted was for the voices to stop…

  
She had sent a letter to her sister, Olivia, explaining to her the situation. Olivia had written back , saying that she was having the very same problems. Her people were restless, and they wanted to see something happen now, and the thing that scared her most was the fact that they didn’t really care what happened, as long as it was something.

  
Olivia had suggested for her to hang on and wait it out, but today, Marion had finally reached her breaking point.

  
She was done.

  
“Fine!” she screamed to no one, and yet to everyone and anyone. “You want me to do something, here you go! Here’s something!”

  
As soon as she put her pen to the paper, she couldn’t stop. Every complaint that her people screamed in her head came out onto that paper. She didn’t leave a thing out. Every slave issue, every rights issue, everything that her people had complained to her about was poured out onto that paper.

  
As she came to the final line, she paused and allowed her hand to linger. Was this the right thing to do? Did her people really know what they were asking for? Was this move too drastic, too much? What if this was a mistake? There was time to turn back, to pretend that this never happened.

  
No. This was what her people were calling for. She didn’t have a choice.

  
At the bottom of the page, Marion Harris, personification of the state of South Carolina, signed her name. The instant her pen lifted from the page, every screaming voice in her head became silent. The change was so sudden, she nearly dropped her pen in shock. She waited for a few seconds, expecting the voices to return, but they remained silent. This silence scared Marion more than anything.

  
With the realization that turning back now was impossible, she quickly folded the letter, placed it in an envelope, sealed, and addressed it. She then called a servant, a teenaged girl by the name of Evaline, to take the letter to the post office for her. After Evaline had left, and the house was silent once again, Marion put her head back in her hands.

  
In a tiny voice that was nearly inaudible, she whispered, “Are you happy now?”

  
There was no answer, and Marion was more alone than she had ever been. Hot and angry tears began to flow again, although it wasn’t as if it really mattered to her anymore.

  
That’s when she heard them.

  
Tiny footsteps, and a small creak of wooden floorboards behind her. Then, a small voice. A child’s voice, accented with what was unmistakably a Southern twang.

  
“Please don’t cry, miss.”

  
Marion turned around quickly, quite startled. She expected a slave to stand in the doorway, but was surprised to see a small white child. He appeared to be only six or seven, with dirty blonde hair that fell just below his eyebrows and covered his ears. Freckles dusted his nose and cheeks, and his skin was a healthy bronze, as if from time in the sun. What stood out to Marion were the child’s piercing eyes, which were a strange mixture of blue and green. He was dressed only in a pair of faded blue overalls, with one strap unclasped and hanging behind him. He was barefoot.

  
“Please miss, don’t cry.”

  
Marion distractedly wiped away her tears with the back of her hand, in awe of this strange child. “Where…?” she stammered. “Who…?”

  
The boy furrowed his brow questioningly, clearly confused.

  
“What I mean to say is…” Marion paused, then took a deep breath. “What’s your name, son?”

  
The boy grinned widely, his smile lighting up his eyes. “I’m Samuel. Samuel Lee Jones!”

  
“And where are you from, Samuel?”

  
The boy furrowed his brow again. He looked disappointed. “Don’t you know miss?”

  
Now it was Marion’s turn to be confused. “I’m sorry Samuel, I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  
“Miss,” Samuel said, suddenly quite serious, “I’m the personification of the Confederate States of America.”

  
-x-x-x-

  
At this exact time, Alfred F. Jones was out in the White House garden, enjoying the brisk afternoon air. He had always loved Christmas time, especially here at the White House. Everything was decorated with red and gold ribbon, crystal, and silver tinsel. The pervasive and sharp scent of evergreen boughs had reached every corner of the house, and the feel of the holidays had penetrated even the most dreary and lonely of offices.

  
Alfred paused in his walk down the path to watch the falling of a snowflake. Snowflakes had always fascinated him in their purity and brevity. One moment they were there, the next they were gone, melted into nothingness, never to be recalled again.  
A memory that had long since been forgotten welled up inside of him again, and Alfred was for a moment lost in the recesses of his mind. He was a young child again, still only a colony of England. It was his first winter, and Arthur was with him. The only thing that Alfred could remember about that winter was this single memory.

  
Nothing extraordinary happened, yet extraordinary wasn’t a word nearly powerful enough to describe it.

  
Alfred was sitting on Arthur’s lap, and they were perched on a brick wall, watching the first snowflakes of the year fall silently on the barren ground before them. Alfred was smiling broadly, his face hurting from the chill of the air and from smiling so much. Arthur was smiling softly, and they were both happy to just be in each other’s company.

  
“Look Alfred,” Arthur whispered as he reached his hand out. On his fingertip, he caught a tiny snowflake. Alfred gasped in wonder, and Arthur pulled his hand close. “See this snowflake?” Alfred grabbed at Arthur’s hand and held it in his own tiny ones. “It’s the only one like it in the world. There’ll never be another one that looks exactly like it ever again.” As he spoke, the snowflake melted into a drop of water on the end of his finger. Alfred sighed sadly, then looked up at Arthur, his eyes misty and on the verge of tears.

  
Arthur smiled. “There’s no need to cry, Alfred. Just remember this: Never fail to see the beauty in the little things, because before you know it, they’ll be gone, much like this snowflake, and another moment like that will never come again.”

  
A stab of pain in Alfred’s chest wrenched him from the memory, and it faded as quickly as the snowflake did on that day. He gasped loudly, and his face contorted into a painful grimace. There it was again, but worse. Alfred grabbed at his coat over where his heart was, and he couldn’t hold it in. He screamed. He fell to his knees. He cursed. He bent over until his face was in the freshly fallen snow on the ground. Hot tears of pain streamed from his eyes, and all he could do was scream into the snow, which was falling faster by the minute. Someone came and tried to help him up, but when he tried to straighten, the pain redoubled and shot through his chest and stomach, sending him back into the snow.

  
“Mr. Jones, sir, please, what’s wrong?”

  
Alfred shook his head, but he knew exactly what was wrong. “I need… to speak to… the… President…” he said through clenched teeth. Another cry escaped his lips, and the person-whoever it was, Alfred didn’t look-ran off to deliver his message to the President. Now he was alone, the snow falling silently all around him. In the crushing solitude, Alfred began to weep. _Arthur_ , he thought, _If this is what I did to you when I left you, then God forgive me._

  
-x-x-x-

  
Marion wasted no time. Within an hour, little Samuel was bathed, his hair combed. His dingy overalls were replaced with a pressed white shirt and dark trousers. Marion even found a pair of black leather shoes that were his size.

  
As she stood behind Samuel before the full length mirror in her bedroom, Marion was beaming with pride. “Now,” she smiled broadly, “Now you look like a young nation.”

  
Samuel didn’t reply. Instead, he gazed at his transformed self in silence. He looked pensively at the reflection that was supposedly him with a slight frown tugging at the corners of his lips.

  
Marion was convinced that she had done exceedingly well. However, she wasn’t sure Samuel was entirely on board with her vision.

  
The longer Samuel stood before his reflection in silence, the more Marion began to doubt whether this was the best idea. I only just met the child, she thought, and the first thing I do is change him completely.

  
She had begun to falter in her resolve and confidence in her work when Samuel reached his little hand up, slender fingers extended, toward the mirror. His fingertips gently brushed the cool glass where his face was reflected. He traced the outline of his nose, his chin, and his cheek, slowly and deliberately. His face suddenly became hard. His jaw clenched, he brought his hands up to his straw-colored hair, which was parted to the side. He ran his fingers back through it, erasing the part and smoothing it back. This completed, he dropped his hands back down to his sides. A smirk replaced his shadow of a frown as he turned his eyes up to meet Marion’s in the mirror.

  
“Yes, ma’am, I do.”

  
Marion smiled cautiously and patted his shoulders before she spun around and left the room. “Your room is at the end of the hall. Let me know if you need anything.”

  
Samuel listened to her hurried footfalls on the stairs. When they had faded into silence, his smirk disappeared. The confident Samuel Lee Jones, face of the newly formed Confederate States of America, was gone now. A scared little boy only remained.  
The angry voices were loud, and he couldn’t make them quiet. They kept saying something about ‘bringing our brothers in’ and needing more people to ‘join the cause’.

  
What exactly that cause was, Samuel had no earthly idea.

  
One voice cried out something that shot a spike of fear through his heart.

  
“The only good Yank is a dead one!”

  
And that’s when they all started at once. Cries for war, death, destruction.

  
Samuel became frightened, and became downright terrified when he couldn’t make the voices stop talking of such things.

  
So he did the only thing he could think of.

  
Samuel sprinted out of the bedroom, down the hall, and into the room Marion had said was his. He whipped the door open and slammed it shut behind him. He didn’t care that the sound was loud, that it echoed through the entire house. The second the door was shut, he ran to the corner of the room, slid down against the wall until he was sitting, held his knees, and began to cry. “Please…” he whispered in between quiet sobs, “…make them stop…”

  
He would soon learn that these prayers are seldom answered.


	2. A Shattered Christmas

Christmas Day was approaching quickly. Marion didn’t really have anything prepared to give to a seven-year-old, so she went out on a frosty Christmas Eve, bundled up in a coat, scarf, and gloves, in search of the perfect Christmas present for Samuel, who she had taken to calling Sammy. She had found that he liked to play outside with some of the young slaves, and that he also loved to read. She had found him the morning after she had taken him in, fast asleep on the couch in her library, with a copy of Herman Melville’s Moby Dick open on his lap. Sammy had made significant progress, a couple hundred pages. She had been astounded that the boy had read so much in only one night, and frankly, that he could even read at all. As a matter of fact, she didn’t learn to read until she was much older. That, of course, was not a thing that she broadcasted to everyone as public knowledge.

Knowing this, Marion stepped into the used bookshop. Inside, it was warm from a fireplace in the corner, and smelled musty and old. An aged man, whose wrinkled skin appeared to have been draped over his tiny frame like a sheet, stood from his chair by the fire. “May I help you, ma’am?” he asked.

“Yes, I’d like to know if you have a book by the name of… A Tale of Two Cities?” Marion inquired about this book in particular because… Well if she were honest, it was the first book that came to her mind at the moment. As it was said before, she had had little time to prepare for Christmas.

“Yes ma’am, I happen to have one right here,” the man smiled. He shuffled across the creaking wood floor to a shelf along the back wall, where he reached above his head and withdrew an old, leather-bound book. He weighed it in his hands, then turned and handed it to Marion. “Does this satisfy you?”

Marion took the book and leafed through it. She nodded, paid the man, and walked out of the bookshop with an air of confidence.

With Christmas tomorrow, she felt she had done exceedingly well.

-x-x-x-

Meanwhile, Sammy had been passing the time with a negro slave called Eli, whom he had befriended on his first day in Marion’s house. Sammy had gone outside after his cry and, because he wasn’t paying attention, walked straight into Eli. Upon first laying eyes on him, Sammy was quite startled. And for good reason. While Eli was only about seventeen, he was huge. His broad shoulders were muscular and strong, along with the rest of his body. When Sammy had walked into his leg, Eli had looked down and, upon not recognizing him, smiled warmly down at him.

“Don reckon I know ya’, son. They call me Eli. What they call you?”

Sammy, not knowing what to do, just stared up at the towering figure before him. Eli broke the silence between them.

“You been cryin’?”

Sammy opened his mouth to protest, but stopped when Eli raised an eyebrow questioningly. He then sighed and hung his head.

Eli stooped down so they were on eye-level, more or less. “Don you be ashamed o’ cryin’, son.” He tilted Sammy’s chin up with his massive finger so that their eyes met. “Some o’ the time, tears c’n be good.”

Sammy sniffed, and when Eli smiled warmly once again, he allowed himself to smile back.

In that moment, any apprehension Sammy had about this man was gone.

“You go’n anyplace special right now?” Eli asked. Sammy shook his head. Eli drew himself up to his full height and put his massive hand, which Sammy took. “You c’n come with me if ya’ wanna.” Sammy smiled, then spoke for the first time.

“They call me Sammy.”

Eli smiled broadly, showing his ivory teeth which contrasted so starkly with the ebony of his skin. “You got yoself a nice name there, Sammy.”

Sammy grinned, and the two went off together. For the first time, Sammy was happy. _Eli is big_ , Sammy thought. _Maybe he’s so big, he can make the mean people in my head go away._ And, in a sense, he could. Whenever the two were together, which was most of the time from then on, Sammy couldn’t hear the angry voices in his head. And little Sammy was happy.

Oh, how short happiness lasts.

-x-x-x-

Sammy woke up early on Christmas morning, long before the sun had risen above the horizon. He couldn’t be more excited for his first Christmas.

Although, it seemed, Marion wasn’t quite as enthusiastic as he was.

Sammy waited outside of Marion’s door for her to open it, giving him that unspoken permission to race down the stairs to the treasures that surely awaited him below.

Sammy waited and waited. But her door never opened. So he sat there, back against the wall, watching the light in the cold hallway change from black, to gray, to pink with the rising of the sun.

By the time the sun had fully cleared the trees outside, Sammy stood up and strode downstairs alone. The house was silent. The slaves were in their shacks further away because they had the day off, leaving only Marion and Sammy in this great and empty house. He didn’t even glance in the direction of the Christmas tree when he passed. Instead, he made a beeline for the back porch.

The second he opened the back door, Sammy instantly wished that he had thought to grab a coat, or at least put on a pair of shoes. He only paused for a moment though, before jumping off the porch and onto the frosted grass, which crunched with each step of his bare feet on the ice-encrusted blades. His destination was not far, and he quickened his pace. He began to shiver, so he crossed his arms in a feeble attempt to ward off the cold that was seeping into his bones.

When he stood before the slave shack, Sammy paused briefly before stepping onto the sloping porch. As he came to the door, the boards creaked loudly, and he very nearly fell through a slot where a board was missing. With his hand shaking from the cold, Sammy knocked on the door. A hearty and warm voice came from inside. “Door’s open!”

Sammy was wary when he pushed the door open. The hinges squealed with even his slight touch, but when the door had swung open fully, any apprehension he had was gone. Eli’s massive frame stood in the middle of the one-room shack, his ebony face all smiles. A slender woman was bent over in front of the hearth, stoking the embers up into a dancing flame. The woman glanced at Sammy and smiled sweetly before straightening and placing the iron poker to the side. She then turned to Sammy again, saw his lack of coat and shoes, and gasped. “Son, doncha know that yul catch cold standin’ out in tha cold wit’ nothin’ on but yo skin? ‘N close that door, yer lettin’ all the heat out.” Sammy opened his mouth to reply, but was whisked inside the shack before he had the chance to speak, or close the door for that matter. “Eli,” the woman said, “git a blanket, he’s cold as ice.” Eli did as he was told, and produced a large threadbare patchwork quilt that looked as if it had seen better days. The woman snatched it away from Eli and wrapped Sammy up tightly in it. He was instantly warm, and the fabric smelled of tobacco juice, earth, and sunshine.

“Come on ova here ‘n git warm’d up,” the woman said as she steered Sammy over toward the fire, which was now blazing and popping loudly. “Don’ ya got ‘ny sense in yo head to put on clothes when ya go outside when it be cold out son?”

Eli smiled and shook his head at his wife’s fussing over Sammy, who in turn smiled up at Eli’s wife. “Thank you ma’am,” he laughed.   
“Nons’nse son.” Eli’s wife waved her hand dismissively and leaned over the fire toward a blackened pot that was hanging over the flames. When she took the iron poker to remove the lid, a rich smell that made Sammy’s mouth water instantly filled the tiny shack. “Why don’ ya stay for supp’r, son? It be Chris’m’s aft’ all.”

Sammy grinned widely and nodded fervently, and Eli and his wife both smiled warmly back at him in return.

Eli’s wife then stooped down so that she and Sammy were on eye level. “What yo name, son?”

Sammy thought for a moment, then opened his mouth.

“Sammy. My name’s Sammy.”

“Sammy…” Eli’s wife seemed to turn the name over in her mouth, trying it out to see how it sounded. With a finalizing nod, she reached up her thin, calloused fingers to Sammy’s face and ran her fingertips across his smooth and tan cheeks thoughtfully, then she held his face in her rough and weathered hands. “Merry Chris’m’s, Sammy.”

And he knew that she meant it.

-x-x-x-

It was well past eleven o’clock in the morning when Marion finally opened her eyes, and it took her a whole five seconds to realize that she had completely forgotten that today was Christmas Day. Her eyes went wide, and she gasped and cursed loudly as she sprang out of bed. The cold air made her wish she was still under the warm blankets, but she couldn’t think about that now. How could she simply forget about Christmas? And where was that book she got for Sammy… Ah, in the top dresser drawer. She cursed again when she saw that she had failed to wrap it up. Oh well, it didn’t matter anymore.

She clambered down the stairs loudly, her bare feet slapping the wood and nightgown flowing out behind her as she hurried to tie her housecoat around her to ward off the chill.

“Sammy!” she called out as she turned into the living room, expecting to find Sammy sitting at the bottom of the tree, “Merry Christmas! I have…  your…”

Marion’s words faded away quietly until she was silent. Sammy wasn’t here. In fact, it looked as if he hadn’t even been here. Nothing was touched, and the hearth was cold. Marion’s arms fell to her sides and she sighed. _Well of course he wouldn’t be here_ , she thought to herself, _I did forget Christmas, after all… Who even does that? Look at me, I’ve ruined Christmas…_

She didn’t know it, but Sammy was having the time of his life only a hundred yards or so away. If one would have asked him about Marion, he would have asked, “Marion who?”

-x-x-x-

Sammy was incredibly content. Just sitting and laughing with these people was more than enough to give him peace in the turmoil of his mind. The voices went quiet when Eli’s deep, rich laugh rang out in the air, and he felt safe with Eli’s wife’s arms wrapped protectively around him. With them, there was no such thing as a Confederate States of America. There were no calls for war. He could simply be himself, and he didn’t have to worry for the people connected to the voices in his head.

Eli and his wife didn’t fully know who this strange white child was that they had let into their home, with his piercing green eyes that seemed to see deep past any facade that was put up. _Th’s child be quite strange_ , Eli thought to himself as he watched Sammy sit with his back to the glowing flames of the fire. _I like ‘im though_.

-x-x-x-

Sammy didn’t bother returning to Marion’s house until well after the sun had set. The stars were all twinkling brightly in the inky sky, their silver light reflecting off of everything and giving it a magical look.

When Sammy had finally come up from Eli and his wife’s shack to the back porch,  he opened up the back door of Marion’s house as quietly as he could, but the hinges still squeaked loudly. He winced when he heard someone’s footfalls coming down the hall toward the back porch, where he was. It was most certainly Marion.

It was. She had been writing letters to her fellow states all day and had not bothered to look much for Sammy after she realized that he was gone. She figured that he wanted some time alone, and frankly, she needed some time herself. Now, she stood in front of Sammy with her arms crossed, frowning.

“Where have you been, son?”

Sammy didn’t want to answer, but he knew he had to, so he chose his words carefully. “Nowhere in particular, ma’am. Just around.”

“Just around, huh?” Marion frowned even more. “Somehow I don’t believe that.”

Sammy shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Well I was… I was with Eli and his wife…”

“Now you can just stop right there, young man,” Marion said sharply. “Eli is a slave, you are the personification of a great nation. You have no business fraternising with the likes of him, ya hear?”

“But-!”

“Don’t you ‘but’ me! You talk back one more time and I’ll make you wish you’d never have opened your mouth in the first place!”

Sammy swallowed and nodded, his eyes downcast. His bare feet were all of a sudden quite intriguing.

“Now you get up to your room and don’t come out until I say.”

Sammy nodded and ran up the stairs and away from Marion as fast as he could. He made sure to not let his angry tears spill until he was alone in his room with the door shut. Something on his bed caught his eye as he made his way to the corner to sit. It was a copy of A Tale of Two Cities, with a note sitting on the cover that read,

_Merry Christmas_

_Love Marion_

__

Through a new flood of angry tears, Sammy grabbed the book from where it sat on his bed and threw it as hard as he could at the wall, where it smashed into the plaster with a loud bang and clattered to the floor.

Sammy covered his face with his hands, then he covered his ears as he began to whimper. The voices had started again. Oh, how much louder and nastier they had become.


	3. I Wanna Be Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sammy grows as a nation while Alfred and President Lincoln have a tense discussion.

The secession letters started to come for Marion after the start of the new year. The first was from Sadie Mae, the state of Mississippi, on the ninth of January. The next day, Tony, the state of Florida. The next, Jackson, who personified Alabama. Just over a week later, Marion got Wyatt’s letter. The state of Georgia had seceded as well. By the time that the letters had slowed, which was after the start of February, two more states had seceded- Lillian and John, who personified Louisiana and Texas. Marion couldn’t be happier, now that she wasn’t alone.

Sammy, however, changed more and more with each new addition to the Confederacy. Not only physically, but mentally as well.

The most obvious difference was how he looked. He aged impossibly quick, going from the appearance of a seven-year-old boy to a twenty-year-old man in a matter of days. His body grew stronger by the hour, a reflection of his people’s preparation for war. The freckles that had dusted his nose and cheeks only days ago were now nearly completely faded. His boyish looks were replaced with the face of a man, and he had somehow picked up an air of controlled passion that any woman who spoke with him found utterly seductive.

The people of the new states had voices all their own, and they incited new thoughts and feelings in Sammy’s mind. His temper became shorter, and he became prone to sudden outbursts that could quickly become terrifying, only for him to settle down as quickly as he had gotten stirred up, and one would never know that he had just screamed unspeakable obscenities at someone. His mannerisms became refined and pointed, and he was soon the very essence of the classic Southern Gentleman. Marion didn’t know what to do with this unpredictable man, who was a boy just days ago, who now lived in her house, so she sent him outside to work or run errands to town just so Marion could get away from him. There was a look in his eyes that she didn’t like. She didn’t want to say it, but she could see a simmering rage in Sammy’s eyes, and it unnerved her. She also feared for the day that that concealed rage would come rushing out, drowning anyone and everyone that was in the way of it.

For the most part, Sammy didn’t want anything to do with Marion, or any of the other personifications of the States that came to visit often. Unless Marion forced him to stay, then he excused himself and took his leave to the back fields, where he would busy himself with splitting wood for the furnace, caring for the horses on the property, or just walking the fields to watch the slaves work, occasionally helping them. He knew that this was all slave work, but it was the only excuse he really had to get away from all of the prim and proper people that were always in the house nowadays, who always were either demanding things of him or doting on him. When he was out of doors, he could think. About everything that was going on. About his people, about how he had grown so rapidly, about the approaching storm that was sure to be a bloody civil war.

The prospect of war was what Sammy spent most of his time thinking about. He didn’t want anyone to die, and he didn’t want to be the one to take a life. So what was he to do? He was the personification of a nation! He had to lead his people, to be the example for them, to be their courage for them when their own courage wavered. But… He just didn’t want to. No one had asked him, he had just been thrust into this whole situation. No one cared to know what Samuel Lee Jones thought of everything.

He was just a means to an end. The pathway to freedom and liberation, but this ‘freedom’ and this ‘liberation’ was far from what Sammy thought the two words meant. Eli had explained it once, and Sammy liked his definition better than what the other states had told him that they meant.

¨Na ya see, Sammy,¨ Eli had said to him once, his voice rumbling deep in his chest, ¨Freed’m be a state o’ mind just a much a it be bein’ able to do whatev’r ya feel. I may not be free in body, but I be free in spirit.¨ Eli had then pointed a thick finger at Sammy’s chest, right over his heart. ¨If ya free in he’e, then ya get to be ok bein a slave. Ain’t nobody bin born yet dat c’n put ya heart in bond’ge. Neva forg’t dat.¨

~

Alfred paced in the oval office, his hands clasped behind him at the small of his back. ¨You don’t understand, Mr. President,¨ he repeated for what felt like the hundredth time this hour, ¨The people don’t take this seriously! They honestly don’t believe that the South is going to put up any kind of fight at all!¨ His voice was growing more and more strained as the conversation went on. Lincoln sat silently at his desk, his fingers drumming against the dark wood in rapid succession. ¨They don’t understand that people will die!¨

Lincoln pursed his lips together and sighed. ¨What am I supposed to tell them?¨

Alfred stopped pacing and hung his head. ¨I honestly don’t know. I’m just at a complete loss. How could this even happen in the first place?¨ He resumed his pacing once again, now faster.

Lincoln shook his head and sighed again. ¨You know the same as I. Which is next to nothing.¨ Lincoln pushed his chair back and stood to his feet. Alfred stopped his pacing again and faced him. ¨I fear,¨ Lincoln started, slowly and deliberately, choosing his words carefully, ¨That the people will simply have to watch and wait. They will see the gravity of this in time.¨

Alfred looked at Lincoln in shock. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

¨It’ll be too late.¨

¨I know. But they have to see this for themselves.¨

Alfred parted his lips to speak, but no words came.

“We can only tell the American people the same thing so many times before they tire of hearing it every time we speak, and our words lose their value. You know that I’m right in saying this. You’ve seen it before.”

Alfred crossed his arms and sighed shakily. This was his worst nightmare come to light, and he was at a complete loss as to how to address it while keeping the bloodshed to an absolute minimum. Now, with each passing day, both he and Lincoln were being forced to entertain the possibility more and more everyday of waging a war that would tear the country apart, and the irony of this war on the horizon is that while it attempted to reunite the people, as far as Alfred could see, it would tear the nation apart.

“You’re right,” Alfred replied at length. “I have seen it before. And you’re also right in saying that they will see the gravity of this eventually.” He turned to face Lincoln head-on, and his words were venomous and cut deeply. “When they see the gravity of this, they’ll be faced with the fact that they have the blood of thousands of fathers, sons, and brothers on their hands, and that is something that they will never be able to rid themselves of. The blood of my people will be spilled, and I will never be able to replace that which will be lost! These are my people, do you understand me? My people!”

“You fail to realize that these are my people also, Alfred.” Lincoln paused to let his words sink in. Then he slowly sat back down in his chair with a sigh. “I want to prevent the loss of as many as possible, but you and I both know that we can’t save everyone.” Lincoln waited until Alfred looked him in the eye for his last statement. “We’re going to have to sacrifice much to reap the rewards, but the question remains: What are we willing to forsake in order to regain a united nation?”

Alfred ran his fingers through his hair, at his wit’s end. Hot tears threatened to well up in his eyes, and he fought them down, but after a few seconds, he let them spill out over his eyelashes and down onto his cheeks. He was done hiding his pain. He just physically couldn’t do it anymore.

Alfred’s voice wavered as he spoke now. “We must do whatever we must do in order to bring my people back.” He met Lincoln’s eyes again, his own now hardened. “Our people.”

Lincoln smiled, but it was grieved. Alfred attempted to smile back through his tears, but couldn’t force his face to comply.

Alfred would not attempt to smile again for a very long time.

****  
  



	4. I Believe

“Samuel, do you have any idea what time it is? Get up!” Marion’s voice cut through Sammy’s dream, which was actually relatively pleasant for once, and he rolled over in annoyance. “I know exactly what time it is,” he growled into the pillow, “and I don’t need you to tell me when I should be up or not.”

Marion wasn’t about to take this for an answer, and she strode into the room, throwing the curtains wide open and letting the bright morning sunshine into the dark room. “You have plenty of things to do today, the least of which is greeting the new states. They’ll be here at ten sharp, and it’s already nearly nine.” When Sammy didn’t stir, she sighed, clearly annoyed, and threw the bed covers back. “What is wrong with you!” Sammy yelped as he tried to grasp at the covers and catch them, but missed, and ended up curling his fingers around nothing but the cold January air. “It’s freezing!”

“Exactly, and the stove is already running low, so run and get some more wood before you get into your suit, if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Sammy grumbled. “Wait a minute,” he added as Marion walked out of the room, “What’s this about a _suit_?”

“Don’t argue with me, Samuel, not today,” Marion called back over her shoulder from halfway down the hallway, “I am not in the mood to deal with an attitude from you. Do as I say, ya hear?”

Sammy rolled his eyes and slid out of the bed, curling his toes underneath him once his feet hit the cold wood floor. He snatched a pair of woolen pants from the foot of his bed and pulled them on over his goosebump-covered legs, then threw on a thick shirt and a jacket, all while muttering and complaining about everything and anything he could think of. He slipped on a pair of boots as he clomped down the stairs, one socked footfall followed by a heavy booted one.

“You know I hate doing all of this,” Sammy called out behind him as he walked out the back door.

Marion’s call could be heard from the parlor. “I don’t care!”

Sammy rolled his eyes and started out for the woodshed. Frosted grass crunched under his feet. His breaths were little puffs of white in the cold air.

Someone called his name. The voice was rich and deep, and rolled smoothly over the cold grass.

_Eli_ , Sammy thought. He almost turned to face him, but decided against it. _I have work to do, I can’t be bothered to waste my time with petty talk._

Eli called his name again. The cold wood was rough against Sammy’s hands. A splinter cut into his palm. _Don’t turn, don’t turn. Don’t even turn._

“Sammy, it’s ben a long time since I saw ya last. Why ain’t ya come down ta see us these past coupla days?”

Sammy still didn’t respond.

“Sam? Ya alright son?"

Sammy grimaced before finally turning, a smile plastered to his face. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

Eli shrugged his huge shoulders. “I dunno, jus seems ta me that ya ain’t yoself.”

Sammy smiled sadly. “Lots of things have changed, Eli.”

Eli laughed, a loud and roaring thing. “Yo ain’t kiddin!” He gestured to Sammy, his massive hands sweeping up from his boots to his fading freckles and straw-colored hair. “Yo bin growin’ like a weed, son! I ain’t nevah seen nothin’ like it.”

Sammy chuckled. “Yeah, it’s a bit to take in. I’m eighteen now, it’s pretty crazy.”

Eli’s laugh slowed until it turned into a sigh. The two men had grown close, but something had changed. Something was different. Eli just couldn’t quite put his finger on it just yet.

“Sam, yo kno yo my friend, now doncha?”

Sammy’s stomach dropped, and he paused before he answered. “Of course I do.”

Eli nodded his head and crossed his arms. He looked down at his feet for a second before meeting Sammy’s eyes again.

“Yo chang’d. Wha happen’d to that lil boy tha I ran into that aftanoon?”

Sammy clenched his jaw. _Why is he asking me this? He has no right…_ He cleared his throat. “That little boy died a long time ago.” He then reached down and started stacking pieces of wood in his arms.

Eli nodded his head and pursed his lips. He didn’t say anything for a moment.

Sammy had nearly filled his arms when he felt Eli take the wood from him. “Let me git thos’ fer ya.”

“No, Eli, I’ve got it-”

“I wo’t hear it. Let me see em.”

Sammy relinquished the wood reluctantly, then stuffed his now numb fingers into his pockets to try and regain some feeling. “Thanks Eli.”

Eli smiled. “Wat are friends fo’?”

Sammy didn’t know what to say back to him as Eli walked away back to the house, his arms laden with the cold, splintery wood.

Eli’s bare feet crunched over the frozen grass.

In Sammy’s ears, that crunch was deafening.

-x-x-x-

Alfred leaned back in the chair at his desk, exhausted. It was nearly three o’clock in the morning. He hadn’t slept in two days. How could he? War was on the horizon, and he had no clue about what to do. This whole situation had spun completely out of control, and he had lost his grip on his people.

He couldn’t do this on his own.

He needed help.

He needed a friend.

Four letters sat on his desk. Three were bound for across the Atlantic, while the last was heading north.

One to Canada.

One to Russia.

One to France.

One to England.

Alfred knew that Matthew would back him, no doubt about it. Ivan would help him in any way that he could. He wasn’t so sure about Francis, but if he could just word it right, then he was sure he would have the French flag behind him.

Arthur was the wild card.

It was almost as if Alfred’s letter to him was a Hail Mary, a last-ditch effort, a final gasp before the tide of war pulled him under.

There was a chance that Arthur would come to his aid, but then again, it hadn’t been long since his own revolution…

There was no predicting the outcome of this letter at all. It could go either way.

Alfred rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and sighed. He had no idea what to do. He was completely lost.

-x-x-x-

“Mr. Jones, sir?”

Alfred jerked awake. He had fallen asleep on a couch in President Lincoln’s office. He found that since this whole secession had started and he had began to lose sleep, he could fall asleep almost anywhere at any time. “Yeah?” Alfred groaned as he sat up on the couch. He tried to pat his mussed hair down, but gave up quickly.

“You have a letter, sir.”

Alfred jumped to his feet. “Now you’ve got my attention. From whom?”

“Your brother, Matthew.”

Alfred grinned widely and strode over to the door, opened it for the messenger, and took the letter eagerly. He didn’t even get the door closed completely again before he tore into the envelope and began to read the words with fervor.

_Alfred,_

_I must admit that when I received your letter, I was unsure of how to respond. I have been able to stay current with the news as it concerns the conflict between you and your States, and I knew that it was only a matter of time before you came to me and asked for some kind of help._

_I will say that I was hoping for this to not go as far as it has, and I would be lying if I didn’t say that I still hope that bloodshed could be kept at a bare minimum, or better yet, if there could be none at all._

_However, I know that this has quickly become an unrealistic prayer._

_Alfred, hear me when I say this: I won’t always be able to drop everything to help you get out of whatever messes you’ve managed to get yourself into. Some things you’ll have to learn how to handle yourself, but I don’t think that now is the proper time for you to learn that lesson alone._

_Yes, I will grant your request for aid. How could I ever deny it?_

_Always your brother,_

_Matthew_

Alfred read and reread the letter, then folded it and placed it into the breast pocket of his coat. He knew that Matthew would help him, but seeing this solidified and in writing made him feel more at ease.

He knew that he would never have been completely alone in this, but now that Canada’s aid was official, he couldn’t help breathing a sigh of relief.

-x-x-x-

When the replies to the other three letters that Alfred sent to Russia, France, and England came back, Alfred took them to his office to read.

He opened Ivan’s first.

_Alfred,_

_I understand that you are in need of support. Of course I will take your side! Now that you have Russia behind you, there’s no need for worry._

_When this is all over, you must come and see my sunflowers. They are going to be absolutely beautiful this spring._

_Best of luck,_

_Ivan_

Alfred smiled. Short, sweet, and to-the-point. That was Ivan.

He set Ivan’s letter to one side before opening Francis’ letter next.

_Mon Ami,_

_Would love to help you and your cause to quell this rebellion, but I must say that my government cannot possibly be deprived of your South’s precious commodities, namely cotton._

_Please give your President and Congress my sincerest apologies._

_Francis Bonnefoy_

_P.S.- A word of advice: Stay away from the guillotine. It never ends well._

__

Alfred cursed under his breath. An alliance with the French could have proven to be extremely valuable, but any hope of having their help was gone.

One more letter lay on his desk.

For the longest time, Alfred just stared at it. He tried walking around his office, scrutinizing his ever-growing bookshelf, staring out the window, but nothing could divert his thoughts from that cream envelope that sat on his desk, burning a hole into his mind.

_Just get it over with,_ he eventually told himself.

With that thought, he sat down at his desk again, slit open the envelope, withdrew a piece of paper, and read the letter that was scrawled on it in thin script.

_Alfred F. Jones,_

_I must decline your request for aid in the matter concerning the increasing conflict between your States. The southern states have many items that are valuable for trade, and we need these items often and at a reasonable price._

_Sincerest apologies, but this is just good business._

_Regards,_

_Arthur Kirkland, United Kingdom of Britain and Northern Ireland_

Just as Alfred picked up the envelope to replace the letter, a small slip of paper fell out onto the floor by his feet. It was folded into a tiny square, and it piqued his interest. He bent down to pick it up, then unfolded it.

_Alfred,_

_The letter that you just read was my official correspondence. I had no choice in what that letter said, I assure you, and I apologize for the coldness of it._

_I want to take this time, now that I have your attention, to tell you some things that are crucial for you to know, now more than ever._

_No matter how bad it gets, remember that this is not going to be the end of you. It may feel like this is the end, and I promise that it will at some point, but you can survive this and come out the other side stronger than you were before._

_If it comes to war, you cannot dwell on the atrocities of it. The end goal is to keep your states together, to keep yourself intact. Achieve this at all costs. I have been torn apart into too many pieces to be able to count. I cannot bear to see the same happen to you._

_I have been through this, and I have lived. I came out of it in one piece, metaphorically speaking. I know how much it hurts, believe me. I have survived the pain of being ripped in two. It killed me every minute of every day during your war for independence, knowing that you didn’t want me anymore, but I still wanted you. Yes, I had been wrong to you, and I knew it, but it still hurt me beyond measure to see that unrequited fury in your eyes. It hurt me to do what I did to you in the years following your declaration._

_To do what I’m doing now._

_But I cannot change the mind of my superiors, believe me, I’ve tried, and they are   immovable._

_If nothing else, know that while you may not have the support of my country, you will always have help from me. I want to help you get through this in one piece. I don’t want you to  lose your people._

_This is not your end._

_This is not your grave._

_This is your dawn._

_This is your beginning._

_Arthur_

Alfred put the letter down on the top of his desk gently. His vision went blurry for a moment, then it cleared. A knot formed in his throat that he couldn’t manage to swallow.

He could only think of two things.

The first: _I am not alone in this._

The second: _I can, no, I_ will _, survive this._


	5. Roll, Jordan Roll

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't updated, I've been out of town. I'm posting from the hotel right now. Enjoy, and thanks for your patience!

Sammy did his very best to steer clear of Marion’s attention, along with that of the other new states. He was too crowded in that house, too cramped. His suit was itchy and hot, despite the cold air that seeped in through the cracks in the windows.

Too many people tried to talk to him, and he didn’t know what to say back. All of the talk was of the surely approaching war, along with gathering supplies and fortifying borders. Sammy just wanted to get out of there. He had enough people screaming for war in his mind, so he didn’t want to be surrounded by it if he could help it. Marion, however, had other plans for him.

He had nearly managed to slip out of the parlor and into the back hall when she called out to him.

“Samuel!”

Sammy cringed before slowly turning around to face her. Somehow he managed to plaster a sideways grin on his face. “Yes ma’am?”

“Come and meet these states, I don’t think y’all have been introduced yet, have you?”

Sammy shook his head and made his way through the crowd to Marion’s side. “No ma’am, I don’t believe so.”

Gesturing to each state, Marion rattled off a string of names, most of which Sammy couldn’t quite catch. His mind was elsewhere, and Marion must have noticed, since Sammy caught a subtle elbow in the ribs for not paying attention closely enough.

A string of music began to pick up in the room across the hall, and Sammy jumped on the chance to get away from Marion for a little while, and also to make an impression on some of the new states. He turned to the two women who personified Louisiana and Mississippi, Lilian and Sadie Mae, and extended an arm.

“Ladies,” he smiled sweetly, “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the ballroom? I have decided that I am in the mood for a dance, and would like to know if either of you lovely and beautiful ladies would care to join me?”

The two girls looked at each other, grinned, and then each took one of Sammy’s arms. He then led them both out and into the ballroom, where the three of them struck up a conversation.

“So,” Lilian said as she smoothed the front of her champagne-colored dress, “What’s it like to be the most famous man in all of the country? Anyone who is anyone is talking about you.” Sadie Mae nodded her head in agreement.

“Well,” Sammy remarked, “It’s quite a job. I don’t get any time to relax and enjoy this turn of events. And if we’re being honest here, I could do without all of this talk about war.”

Lilian frowned for a moment, then reached out and laced her fingers between Sammy’s own. When their eyes met, she asked, “We still on for that dance?”

Sammy smiled and led her out onto the floor. The music was a light melody, and easy to dance to, and for that, Sammy was grateful. He hadn’t had too much of a chance to practice any dancing, but once they started, he soon realized that it came easily to him.

As they twirled around the floor, Sammy tried to make conversation.

“So, the other states… How do they feel about all of this?”

Lilian cocked her head to the side. “About all of what?”

“The secession, all the talk of war, you know.”

Lilian threw her head back and laughed. “You don’t know how to talk about anything else, do you?”

Sammy shrugged. “Give me a break, I’m pretty new at this. And Marion hardly ever lets me talk about anything else.”

Lilian laughed again. “You need to lighten up, you’re such a downer. But to answer your question,” she added, “They’re all pretty different. Take Florida.” She pointed over Sammy’s shoulder to a small man by the punch bowl. “He’s pretty neutral, and I have a feeling he only succeeded so he wouldn’t be isolated. Texas, on the other hand,” Lilian nodded in the direction that they had come from, “is about as gung-ho as anybody. Same with Georgia and Alabama. All of them have gotten real stirred up and riled.”

The song had ended, and everyone stopped to applaud the musicians in the back corner. As they exited the dance floor, Sammy asked, “What about you?”

“I’m glad that we can finally fight for the rights that we deserve to have. I’m just sorry that it’s blown up to the degree that it has.”

Sammy nodded in agreement. “You and me both.”

Lilian furrowed her eyebrows and picked up a glass of tea that was sitting on a table nearby. “I just don’t understand what those danged Yankees see in the negroes. All this talk about emancipating them and ending slavery…” She took a long sip from the glass. “Who do they think they are for saying such things? I am entitled to my own property just the same as they are.”

Sammy hesitated, mulling over her words for a moment.

“Yes… I suppose you’re right…”

-x-x-x-

Marion sat at her desk a couple nights later, poring over a stack of papers in the candlelight, but not thinking about them at all. She was thinking about Sammy, and his developing friendship with one of her slaves, Eli. Yes, that was his name. The big, burly one. She had been watching the two of them ever since they had met a little over two months or so ago, and she had finally decided that the two had become too close. Sammy was the personification of the Confederacy, and it was about time that he started acting like it.

The personification of the Confederate States of America could not be seen spending so much time with a negro.

It was inappropriate and unseemly, not to mention embarrassing.

She would have none of it.

Marion sifted through the stack of papers to unearth a folder of significant thickness. She then opened it, flipped through the pages in it for a moment, before finding the one that she was looking for.

Yes, this was his paperwork.

Marion smiled.

This situation would be easily rectified, through the sale of a couple of slaves, one of which went by the name of Eli Harris.

-x-x-x-

Sammy was up early, before the rising of the sun. He wanted to take a ride to town to pick up a couple of things that Marion needed, and he was hoping to be back sometime before noon. If he left now, he’d be able to beat the traffic surrounding the market, since tomorrow was due to be a slave trade day.

His horse was already tacked up and ready to go outside, and Sammy slipped back inside to get the list. While searching Marion’s desk for it, he stumbled upon a folder that bore a title that nearly made his heart stop.

In the upper righthand corner, in the cursive and flowy script that was obviously Marion’s hand, was written _Market Sales, February 8, 1861._

Sammy’s breath caught in his throat, but he forced himself to pick the folder up and open it. Inside, he found five sheets of paper, all listing different slaves. He dropped the folder in shock. The last paper had Eli’s name written on it.

 _No, there’s got to be some mistake,_ Sammy thought as he hastily gathered the papers up with shaking hands. _I’m not reading this right, there’s… There’s no way…_

He knew he was reading it right. He couldn’t believe it. _How could Marion do such a thing? How could she sell Eli? She can’t do that…_

But she could, and Sammy knew it.

That’s when Sammy got an idea.

_She can’t very well sell a slave that she can’t find, can she?_

-x-x-x-

The plan was made. Eli was hesitant at first, but when Sammy reassured him that he wouldn’t get caught, and even on the off chance that he did, he would have papers on him that secured his safety, then Eli was on board. Eli wanted his wife to come with him, but Sammy told him that it would be too risky.

“Two people are easier to find than just one, I don’t want to make it riskier than it already is.”

“Sam, I ain’t goin nowheres wit’out her.”

“But Eli-”

“Sammy, no. One o’ these days y’ll und’stand why.”

Sammy sighed before caving, and the three of them slipped off of the plantation just before sunrise, with Sammy’s horse laden with blankets and some food. They were headed to a small barn on a far corner of the property, where Eli and his wife could hunker down until morning, when Sammy would then sneak them away.

They were at the barn within an hour and a half, and Sammy pried the door open as Eli and his wife watched.

The barn was filled with cobwebs and hay, along with some old farm equipment that was covered in a thick layer of dust.

“Sorry it’s not anything better, but this is all I can offer.”

“Son,” Eli said, “This be mor’ than I c’n ask ya for. How do I thank ya?”

Sammy shook his head. “You say thank you, that’s how.”

Eli smiled. “Th’n thank ya.”

Sammy smiled back. “Now get in there before Marion notices I’m gone and gets suspicious.”

Sammy took the blankets inside and settled Eli and his wife in for the day following night. As he stood by the door, he took one last look in before saying, “I’ll be back soon.”

With that, he drew the doors closed and lowered a wooden board, effectively securing the doors. He sighed shakily, ran his fingers through his hair, and withdrew a cigarette and matchbook from his pocket. He lit it shakily, then took a long drag. The smoke filled his lungs, and he held his breath for a few seconds before slowly blowing a stream of smoke from his lips. He inhaled sharply through his nose before raising the cigarette to his lips again.

_Am I sure this is the right thing to do? Am I making this worse by doing this? What happens if I get caught? If they get caught? What will people say if they find out? What do I say? How do I keep this under wraps? Marion has got to know that this was me, it has my name written all over it, I mean, who else would do this?_

He flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette with a finger, then raised it to his lips again. With the quiet, the voices of his people came back into his mind. More talk of the new states, growing anger with the North, and as always, cries for war. He had come to the conclusion that he would never be able to escape these voices for as long as he was a nation, and he then decided to listen to them, at least for the moment.

 _Their requests aren’t all that unreasonable,_ he decided, _I mean, all they want is to be able to live their lives the way that they want, right? How is that so bad?_

Someone yelled something, and the voice carried over the trees to where Sammy was standing. The voice dragged him out of his own thoughts, and he cursed at the closeness of it. He stomped out his cigarette and ran to his horse, mounted it, and then galloped away from the barn toward the main house.

He would be back after sundown to check on Eli. All that was left to do now was to act as naturally as possible until then, which he knew would be easier said than done.

-x-x-x-

Sammy managed to make it through the day without incident, but he tried to steer as clear away from Marion as he could without raising suspicion. That actually was quite simple, seeing that Marion was busy writing her sister Olivia, who was the personification of North Carolina, in an attempt to convince her to join the Confederacy. Sammy was silently grateful that she was away from him all day, and that made his job much easier.

He busied himself with writing letters of his own, to each of the states already in the Confederacy, mostly introducing himself and clearing an avenue for discussion for the future. If there was going to be war, Sammy figured he might as well start getting ready for it now, and if there wasn’t going to be one, then he would be well known by his states anyway. He left the letters downstairs later in the afternoon, then busied himself with listening to the voices of his people and writing down their main ideas and complaints. So far, he had the same things written down that he had heard earlier, but he decided that it was still good to write them down. That way he could have something to show the other states when he met with them later on, that clearly outlined the thoughts and needs of people outside of their own borders.

Supper time came earlier than Sammy expected, and he was not looking forward to another awkwardly silent meal with Marion, but he put his leather-bound notebook away in a drawer anyway and clambered down the steps, his footfalls echoing through the stairwell and hall.

It was a few minutes into the meal of greens, pork chops, and beans when Marion spoke.

“So what do you think of the new states?”

“They’re lovely, Marion.”

“I agree. That Lilian girl sure is a character, isn’t she?”

“Yes Marion.”

Silence fell once again. Sammy broke it a few minutes later.

“How’s Olivia doing?”

“Oh she’s doing fine, Samuel. She’s still hesitant about seceding, but that’s completely understandable.”

“Are any other states considering joining?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Besides North Carolina, there’s Arkansas, Tennessee, and Virginia.”

“Do they sound serious?”

“I believe so, but they’re still reserved about the whole deal. Again, completely understandable.”

“Yes, it is.”

Silence again. It wasn’t broken until the plates had been taken up, and Sammy had already excused himself from the table.

Marion called out to Sammy from where she was still sitting. “Oh, Samuel, I nearly forgot to mention this to you.”

Sammy stopped in the doorway of the dining room and turned to face Marion. “What is it?”

“I meant to bring it to your attention earlier, but time got away from me. One of the old abandoned barns in the west corner of the property managed to burn down this morning, you might want to look into it and make sure that it wasn’t the work of some careless kids.”

The color left Sammy’s face.

He put out a hand to steady himself against the doorframe.

He tried to swallow the rock that had formed in his throat.

His voice wavered.

“I… I’ll be sure to look into it.”

Marion smiled. “Good boy. Now go and tell someone to put more wood in the stove in the sitting room, it’s freezing in there.”


	6. A Casual Affair

Alfred knocked on the door to the Oval Office. Spring was now getting established, and the start of April had been a welcome change from the cold of winter. The sweet air had worked its way into every room of the White House, and curtains had all been thrown to the side to welcome the morning sunlight. Alfred took no notice of this, however. His mind was preoccupied with a heavy message.

A voice from inside called out. “Enter.”

Alfred pushed the door open, eased himself in, and shut the door softly behind himself. He stood by the door until President Lincoln looked up from his desk. He was writing a letter, and when he noticed Alfred, he put his pen down with a smile. “Alfred,” he said, “It’s good to see you.”

“You as well, Mr. President. I am afraid, however, that I have some bad news that needs your immediate attention.”

Lincoln sighed and removed his glasses. “Alfred, you know how much I hate it when you walk into my office and say that to me.” He paused before he looked up to meet Alfred’s gaze. “But let’s get it over with.”

Alfred nodded and pulled a chair across the room so that he could sit directly across from the President.

“Sir, there’s been talk that the Confederacy-that’s what they call themselves-has a personification. Now this is just talk, I haven’t confirmed it yet, but I think that you should be aware of this.”

Lincoln sat up in his chair. “A personification? What do you know?”

“From what I’ve heard, he’s young, driven, passionate. Typical for a new nation. Also, if I were to draw my own conclusions, unstable.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Well sir, his people are in turmoil. They call for war, they’re wishing harm on their own families. Who wouldn’t be at least a little unstable with all of that in your head?”

Lincoln nodded. “I see. Anything else?”

Alfred shifted his weight in his chair. “Sir, can… Can I speak freely?”

“Of course, Alfred. What is it?”

Alfred leaned forward and rested his elbows on Lincoln’s desk. “Sir, this personification… He calls himself Samuel Lee _Jones_. I’ve heard that he’s claiming that he’s _my brother_. There’s also talk that he’s violent, unpredictable. A womanizer as well.” Alfred cleared his throat. “He’s dangerous, sir. I don’t like where this is going, and if he’s as unstable as I think he may be, then I’m afraid that there’s a slim possibility of negotiating a state of peace.”

Lincoln raised his eyebrows and leaned back in his chair. “I see. So this man is the kind of a man that is not to be underestimated.”

“That is correct sir.”

“You don’t like this man, do you Alfred?”

Alfred shook his head. “No sir, I do not.”

Lincoln looked Alfred in the eyes. “Then you must get to know him.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me. You must get the facts straight about this Samuel Lee Jones, and the only way to do that is to get to know him. Send him a letter, arrange a meeting, something. Just hear what he has to say, and you never know, but you may be able to get somewhere with this man.”

Alfred sighed. “You really think that’ll work?”

Lincoln smiled. “Yes Alfred, I do.”

-x-x-x-

Samuel sat on the back porch of Marion’s house, his back resting on a whitewashed column. The morning sunshine bathed his skin, and the warm breeze tousled his hair, which had grown long enough to cover the tops of his ears. The boyish freckles that had onced peppered his nose and cheeks had all but faded completely. The rough wood of the column dug into the skin of his bare back, and his calloused fingers played distractedly with the suspenders that hung from the waist of his pants. Bare toes brushed the growing blades of the new grass. With his eyes closed and a slight smile on his lips, Samuel was able to have a moment of much-needed solitude for the first time in a month. He took a deep breath, sucking the sweet air into his lungs, then blew it out softly out of sunburnt lips.

His men were attacking the Union garrison at Fort Sumter, and were faring magnificently.

War had finally come to his doorstep, and Samuel couldn’t be happier. The North was about to finally see that he and his people meant business, and were not to be trifled with.

Everything was as it should be, and life was good. Yes, life was good indeed.

-x-x-x-

Alfred slammed the telegram on Lincoln’s desk. “They’ve gone and done it!”

Lincoln looked up from the papers that he was reading and picked up the telegram. “Who’s gone and done what?”

“The Confederacy. They’ve attacked Fort Sumter!”

Lincoln raised his eyebrows, read the telegram, and removed his glasses slowly. “Dear God in heaven…”

“If that’s not a clear declaration of war, then I don’t know what is.”

Lincoln furrowed his brows in a frown. “This is a pretty clear message indeed.”

Lincoln pushed his chair back and stood to his feet.

“What are you going to do, sir?”

“I am going to send supplies to Fort Sumter. If I send troops, I will be seen as the aggressor, and that is the very last thing that I need right now. If I send aid to our men down there, then that leaves the choice to the Confederacy. If they allow the aid to come, then that completely dismantles the legitimacy of their secession. If they fire on our supply ships, then that makes them the aggressors. Either way, we either dodge both the literal and proverbial bullets, or unite the states against the South.”

-x-x-x-

“Samuel!”

Marion’s voice jerked Samuel awake. He had fallen asleep against the column on the back porch, and he was less than happy about being disturbed. _Maybe if I stay quiet, then she’ll actually leave me alone for once_.

“Samuel!”

Samuel yelled over his shoulder, “Oh for the love of God, what is it?”

Marion eased the screen door open slowly. “Samuel… One… One of the colts got out of the paddock and I think he headed out toward the southern fields, I need you to go find him.”

Samuel groaned and got to his feet. “Fine, since there’s absolutely _no other person_ on this entire plantation that could possibly do it.”

Marion stood stock-still in the doorway, staring at Samuel. He stood in front of her and looked down into her face. He had grown to be a good four inches taller than Marion, and she was starting to not like where this situation was going.

“You’re in my way.”

Marion couldn’t move. There was something about the way that he spat out the words that made her skin crawl.

“I said,” Samuel wrapped his fingers around Marion’s arm as tight as a vice, and she grimaced. He yanked her to the side and out of his way, so that he pushed her hard into the doorframe. “Move.” Samuel then strode past her and through the house, then through the front door and out of sight.

Marion sighed shakily and slid down against the doorframe. She covered her mouth with a hand and managed to choke back a flood of tears. She was sure that she would wake up with five finger-shaped bruises on her upper arm.

_What’s going on? What just happened?_

-x-x-x-

Alfred gazed into the mirror in his bedroom as he ran a comb through his sandy hair. Tonight was sure to be a big night. After all, tonight was the night of the biggest party that the White House had seen in years. Every Union general and his family would be there to enjoy an evening of good food and fine wine after a strategy meeting that the President was holding. Despite the fact that it had been pulled together on such short notice, this party was sure to not disappoint.

A glance at his watch forced Alfred to put the comb down on his dresser and tie his tie as he descended the stairs of his wing of the White House. The party was clear across the grounds, in the ballroom that overlooked the gardens, but if he hurried, then he’d make it by four o’clock, which was when the meeting was due to start. Maybe then they’d come up with a plan to squash this Southern rebellion into nothingness once and for all.

-x-x-x-

Samuel stepped out of the cab about three blocks away from the White House. Marion had told him about the party (he didn’t bother to ask how she found out), and so he decided to pay Alfred a little visit. He knew that it would be strictly regulated as to who would be allowed inside, but he figured he would be able to get himself in. He was a smart man, after all.

With a tug on the bottom of his suit’s jacket, he started the short walk to the White House’s doors. He knew exactly which back door he would go for, and once he was in, that was when the fun would begin.

It only took about five minutes before he saw the lights of the ball from the street. A quick glance confirmed the information that he had been given: Security was lacking, but especially in the eastern entrance. There was only one guard that he could see, but he was sure to be armed. This little detail wouldn’t prove to be a problem.

It was nearly eight o’clock, and the lawn was covered with the blanket of night. The moon was hidden behind a veil of thick clouds. Not a single star’s light could pierce the dark.

Samuel walked nonchalantly around the grounds, then entered around the back, easily slipping past a couple of guards that were less than watchful. His only resistance would come when he would try to enter the eastern door.

The guard was nearly the same size as Samuel, and Samuel caught him by surprise as he tried to climb the stairs.

“Sir, you’re not supposed to be here! I’ll have to ask you to leave!”

Samuel looked up and feigned shock. “I’m sorry, I just stepped out for some fresh air, my wife is waiting for me inside. She’s quite impatient.”

The guard put out a hand to stop Samuel when he tried to climb the steps again. “Sir, I’m only going to ask you to leave one more time. You’re not supposed to be here.”

Samuel put his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, relax. But have you got a light?” He fished a cigarette from the pocket of his jacket. “I’m dying for a smoke.”

The guard paused in thought, then slowly pulled a matchbook from his pocket. With a wary eye on Samuel, who met his gaze unwaveringly, he struck the match against the wall. As he climbed the steps, the orange glow cast sharp shadows on Samuel’s face. He stuck the cigarette between his teeth and leaned forward into the match. Samuel smiled, and in the dim light, his eyes were hauntingly cold.

Just before the guard could pull the match away, Samuel threw one swift and strong punch with the heel of his hand up into the guard’s nose. He felt the nose snap, and the guard fell backward onto the ground. The guard moaned and clutched his face, which was already covered in shining crimson. Samuel stood over his body and took one long drag on the cigarette. He looked down on the body of the guard, blew a lungful of smoke down at him, and tossed the cigarette onto his chest.

“Thanks for the light, my friend.”

With that, Samuel smoothed his hair with one hand and opened the door. Golden light streamed past him, and he slipped into the White House. He was sure to lock the door behind him.

A crowd of people was gathered before him, all either sitting at tables in an adjoining room, crowding around massive bowls of pink punch, or dancing on the dance floor in front of him.

Samuel scanned the room for Alfred, but he couldn’t see him immediately. He knew he had to blend in divert any suspicions, and when he spotted a young redheaded girl that was standing alone in a nearby corner of the room, he knew exactly what he needed to do.

He was at her side a moment later. He wrapped his arm around her waist and spun her around so that she faced him. The girl gasped.

“Oh my,” Samuel said, “Did I startle you?”

The girl looked up at Samuel and said nothing. She only swallowed and nodded.

“My dear, I apologize for that.” He smiled, and extended a hand for the girl to take. “How about I make it up to you? Care for a dance?”

The girl nodded, and Samuel led her out onto the dance floor. She was like putty in his hands. All smiles, giggles, and squeals. When the song finished, he took her by the hand off the dance floor and to a chair. There, he kissed her hand and apologized for the fact that he had to leave, but he had some business to take care of. The girl grinned widely and said that it was completely understandable, and with that, Samuel disappeared into the crowd.

As he pushed his way through the sea of people, he looked for Alfred again, and for the second time, he came up empty. That’s when he thought, _If I was Alfred, I wouldn’t stay in this party for long. I would probably find a balcony or go into the garden…_ Samuel spotted a door that led onto the outdoor balcony from the second floor. Samuel smiled. _Perfect_.

He climbed the marble steps quickly and slipped through the door, silently and unnoticed. Resting his hands on the railing was Alfred.

Samuel pulled a cigarette and match from his pocket, lit his cigarette, and watched Alfred’s back as he smoked it silently. Alfred didn’t move. Samuel was the one who broke the silence. His voice was smooth as honey, his Southern twang clear.

“Something on your mind?”

Alfred turned to face Samuel. “Yeah, a lot actually.” He waved a hand at the party inside as Samuel walked slowly up to Alfred’s side. “This whole situation with the secession of the Southern states… I just don’t see how this can all happen so fast.” Alfred turned and rested his hands on the railing again and sighed. “I wasn’t thinking about it, and it all just… Happened.”

Samuel took another drag on his cigarette. He then leaned over so that his lips brushed against Alfred’s ear. Alfred froze, his breath caught in his throat. Smoke blew over Samuel’s lips and into Alfred’s ear.

“Are you thinking of me now?”

Samuel chuckled and slapped Alfred on the arm heartily, then drew back. Alfred couldn’t move. _There’s no way… It can’t be him…_

Alfred whipped around to face Samuel. As he turned, the words spilled over his lips like water. “You son of a-!” He stopped mid-thought.

Samuel was gone. A still-smoking cigarette lying on the railing by Alfred’s hand was the only evidence that anyone had been out on the balcony with him.

Alfred wasted no time. He strode through the door and into the ballroom. He searched the crowd, but he came up with nothing. _A man can’t just disappear… No, there he is!_

Alfred spotted Samuel walking casually through the crowd downstairs, looking as if he belonged there. He watched Samuel slither through the bodies, but when he passed a young red-headed girl that was sitting on a sofa, he leaned over and gently kissed her on the cheek. He then whispered something in her ear that made her hide her face, but when she lowered her hands, she was blushing and grinning widely. Samuel bowed his head to her and left her, and he headed for one of the back doors. Just before he reached it, he turned and looked up to the second floor. His eyes locked onto Alfred’s, and the most sickening of smiles was spread over his face. Without breaking his stare, he reached into his pocket and removed a pair of… Glasses? Alfred frowned, then patted his suit in an attempt to find his own glasses. He clenched his jaw at the realization: Samuel had stolen his glasses out of the inside pocket of his suit.

Alfred could see Samuel laugh as he pocketed Alfred’s glasses, and could have sworn that he saw Samuel wink just before he slipped out the door.

Alfred was still for a moment, but he gathered his senses quickly enough. He pulled a guard to the side and whispered the situation in his ear. The guard nodded and left, and Alfred could hear the voices of other guards as they went to search for Samuel.

Somehow though, Alfred knew that they wouldn’t find him.


	7. The Point of No Return

“Tell me what happened, Alfred.”

“Tell you what-! The guy sauntered in like he owned the place! He hauled off and broke a guard’s nose, and for what? To blow some smoke in my face? Threaten me? Smirk till his heart was content?”

“Alfred, tell me something useful here, at least. What did he look like?”

“He… He was early twenties, blonde, tall. I don’t know, it was dark. The jerk stole my glasses!”

“Alfred. Pull yourself together. The only way for us to catch this guy is to get a description out so that the police can catch him if they see him around the city before he has a chance to leave town.”

“Yeah, I know.” Alfred’s pacing had only quickened during the conversation, which had been going on for ten minutes at least, with neither side was getting anywhere. Alfred was growing more and more frazzled as the conversation went on, and Lincoln was, in turn, growing more and more irritated with Alfred.

“Try for a physical description that is actually usable, please,” Lincoln sighed as he removed his glasses from his nose. “Start from the very beginning. Think. What did the man look like?”

“Alright, alright.” Alfred ran his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath. “He was about as tall as I am, maybe an inch or two under six feet. His hair was blonde, and it was smoothed back. Not short, but not long either. He’s muscular, but not bulky. About the same as me. I… I don’t remember much else.”

“Is that the best you can come up with?”

“Yeah, that’s the best I can come up with, what else do you want from me?” Alfred’s voice was strained, his hands thrown up over his head. “I wish I could tell you more, but he was with me for all of thirty seconds, this is all I have.”

Lincoln scribbled something on a sheet of paper, folded it, and slipped it into his pocket. “I’ll give this to the police, and they’ll be on the lookout for Samuel Lee Jones.”

“It’s not-!” Alfred clenched his fists and slammed them down on Lincoln’s desk, making Lincoln jump. “Don’t call him that!  _ That rebel traitor is not my brother! _ ”

Lincoln’s voice was cold. “Alfred. Calm down.”

“Calm down?” Alfred screamed. “ _ Calm down?  _ The personification of the Confederacy just walked right through the front door!  _ And you’re telling me to calm down? _ ” With a sweep of his arm, everything on Lincoln’s desk were swept away. Pens clattered to the ground, inkwells shattered, documents and letters flew across the room. Lincoln only stared Alfred in the eyes.

“Our country is falling apart! My own people are ready to murder each other in the streets!” Alfred gripped Lincoln’s desk, his knuckles white. With ease, he flipped the massive oaken desk to the side. The crash was deafening. Every drawer fell out of the desk and onto the floor, their vomiting their contents onto the beige carpet. Lincoln didn’t move from his chair. Alfred stood tall before him, his arms and shoulders rigid. His voice was quiet, but it shook with rage. His eyes burned with passion. “And you have the gall to tell me… To calm down?”

The silence that followed was thicker than the blood that boiled in Alfred’s veins. The two men only stared each other down, neither willing to break the gaze. Alfred’s eyes were flames of fire, Lincoln’s eyes slivers of steel. Two men of iron wills, at a stalemate. 

Lincoln was the one to break the silence. “Alfred, I am going to tell you something now that I know that you are not going to like, but I ask you to listen to me as a friend. Can you do that?” Alfred clenched his jaw, but his eyes softened slightly. After a moment, he nodded his head. 

“Alfred,” Lincoln continued, his fingers folded, “This war will leave a bloody stain on the history of this country, if not on the world as a whole. I beg you to look at it through the eyes of reason, and be prepared to view it through hindsight. With that said, the world will look at us after this is over and point the finger of blame at us, at you. I want you to be able to not be ashamed of what you had to do to bring this country back together. History will pin everything to me and my presidency, but I know that you must carry on after I am dead and gone. You bear the weight of everything that happens in this war, to this country, to the American people. I don’t want you to carry more than you absolutely must. I can't sit back and watch it destroy you. Do you understand?”

Alfred nodded. He understood clearly enough. His rage had ebbed to nothing, and he could finally see that Lincoln had his back in this. He wasn’t alone in the pain that this war was bringing. He had a friend who felt it too.

-x-x-x-

Samuel had finally moved to Richmond, Virginia, where the new Confederate States of America had established its capital. The states were enjoying their newfound freedom from the Union quite exhilarating, and they all felt the need to express their feelings to him at every waking moment. Samuel was just glad to be out of Marion’s house and out from under her thumb. Besides, being at her plantation reminded him too much of Eli. He may have changed in nearly every way since that day, but that didn’t mean that he had forgotten. Still, he would find himself lying awake until the early hours of the morning, thinking about what would have happened if he hadn’t locked the door. If he hadn’t smoked that cigarette. If he hadn’t fled. If he had done nothing in the first place, and just let Marion sell Eli. 

The ‘what if’s never led anywhere, and always left Samuel feeling empty and numb. Despite this, he could never keep Eli off of his mind for long. His face would creep into his mind in the middle of a conversation, or he would hear his rolling laugh in his ears while he laughed himself.

Everything that the states had instilled in his mind made Samuel shake the memory of Eli away and dismiss him as nothing more than a slave of no consequence. However, deep down, below everything that the states had beaten down inside of him, lay the memory of a friend. The only true friend that Samuel had. And the knowledge that it was his fault that that friend was dead.

“Samuel!”

A voice jerked Samuel out of his thoughts, and he turned to face the man who spoke. Samuel smiled when he saw him. “President Davis! So glad that you’re here!” Samuel stood from his chair in the parlor and shook the hand of Jefferson Davis, the new president of the Confederacy. “I trust that your trip here was alright?”

“Indeed son, it was. I must say that I am quite impressed with how the war effort is coming along thus far.”

“I am as well, but one mustn't underestimate the strength and determination of Southern men and women when they get an idea going.”

“That is very true, young man, and I’ll see you in the meeting.” Davis clapped Samuel on the shoulder before turning and walking toward the dining room, where a room full of Southern generals all stood to their feet to welcome the President. 

Samuel sighed, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and sipped it from a glittering crystal glass as he watched people trickle slowly into the dining room. He had learned quickly that he hated dealing with politicians. He was much better suited to the idea of carrying a gun and being ready to shoot it than talking and arguing about the policies surrounding it. His own gun was upstairs in his room on the bedside table, along with a box of bullets and his holster. 

Someone inside of the dining room called for everyone to take a seat around the table, and Samuel sighed as he downed the remainder of what was in his glass.  _ Here we go, _ he thought to himself as he walked into the dining room and took his seat beside Jefferson Davis at the head of the table. His throat and stomach burned pleasantly from the whiskey.

“Gentlemen,” Davis announced, “War is at hand! I have hand-picked you to be the men who will lead the armies of this glorious country to victory and freedom! Rally your men to the flag of Dixie, and we will surely show those Yankees the grit and strength of the South!”

A rumble of agreement rolled through the room, but Samuel was silent. 

“This,” Davis said with a sweep of his arm, “This is Samuel Lee Jones, the personification of these Confederate States of America. He will be consulting with you concerning positions and strategy, and he will also be feeding what information he can.” Samuel nodded to the men surrounding the table, who returned the gesture. “Samuel, do you wish to address the generals?”

Samuel nodded again, and stood slowly from his chair. He waited a moment to gather his thoughts before he spoke. 

“Gentlemen,” he said quietly, “I wish as much as you that this war didn’t have to happen, but it does. We all know what that means, and we have to be prepared, so that is what we must stress to everyone. Preparedness. Train your men as proficiently as you can in this short time period, and be ready to take the fight to our enemies. Our enemies are not stupid, and they have more resources and manpower than we do, but we cannot let that affect how we wage this war. We must be mindful of this, but we have an advantage: We’re fighting for our land, our families, and our possessions, on our own territory. We’re on the defensive. Invading enemies can only last so long before they lose their motivation, and if our drive to protect can outlast their drive to purloin, then we will be sure to come out of this fight as the victors. Motivate your men. Give them something to fight for until the very end. Fuel the fire in their hearts into an unquenchable inferno. This war will change the course of history. Let’s make sure the tide turns in our favor.”

A murmur of approval filtered through the room, and Samuel sat down again. Davis immediately began to discuss where the next battle would be, and troop numbers needed to get a solid start on the war. Samuel quickly grew bored since this meeting could have gone on just fine without him, and busied himself by tracing the grain of the massive oaken table with his finger. No one was paying him any attention, and no one asked for his opinion, so he was content to stay quiet and mind his own business until this meeting would adjourn. After about three quarters of an hour, everyone began to leave, and Samuel rose to his feet and shook the hands of the generals as they left. Davis was the last to leave. He smiled at Samuel, who smiled back, and left without another word. Samuel was left alone in the dining room. He sighed and slipped down into a chair, his head in his hands. 

_ I’m not ready to do this. I’m not ready to lead a country into war.  _

His hands began to shake. A knot formed in his throat. 

_ I can’t do this. _

Fingernails dug into his scalp. His breathing became ragged.

_ I can’t have blood on my hands. _

Sweat beaded on his brow. The room began to shrink, then spin.

_ I’m not ready… I can’t… I don’t want…  _

Something inside of him stirred, and a voice in his mind spoke. It was his voice, but not his at the same time. It was darker, more sinister. It was a voice brimming with rage.

_ You had better learn quick, then. _


	8. This Is War

It lay on his bed, folded neatly on top of the bedsheets, the dull gray a sharp contrast from the blue of the bedclothes. 

His uniform.

Samuel stood over it, almost afraid to touch it. The scene before him was too surreal to be happening. To his left and on the floor was his bag, filled with everything that he would ever hope to need: Food, extra clothes, a blanket, bandages, and a canteen that hung on a long string from the side. To his right was a yellow telegram. It was the telegram that he received not long ago that declared the start of the war. Samuel didn’t know why he had kept it, but he held onto it nonetheless. In front of him was the uniform. 

_ Deep breath. In and out.  _

The cloth felt rough on his skin as he pulled the jacket on.

_ This is new territory, but you can do this.  _

His fingers shook slightly as he fastened the buttons. One slipped.

_ It’ll all be alright. No big deal.  _

Trousers now. 

_ The plan is foolproof. We show the Union what we’re made of, they back down, we go home, everyone’s happy. _

The boots were brand new. He would have to break them in before they could hope to become even remotely comfortable.

_ You’re a nation, act like one. War happens, and this is your war. Now is your chance to make a mark on history. _

The hat didn’t feel quite right when he tried it on, so he stuffed it into his bag somewhere between a blanket and some bullets.

_ History remembers the victor. _

His hair was still messy, so he combed it back with his fingers. He really should have gotten it cut before today, but too late now.

_ Make it impossible for history to forget the Confederate States of America. _

Out of the corner of his eye, Samuel caught a reflection of himself in the mirror across the room. A man stood in the reflection, clothed in gray, with straw-colored hair falling into his face. A pool of green for eyes, the shadow of a beard on his chin and cheeks. The boy that he once was was long dead. The man he was now had slain him. This man was ready and willing to do anything for his people. He would fight. He would kill. He would bleed. He would wage a war that the world would remember for centuries to come.

_ Make it impossible for history to forget the name Samuel Lee Jones.  _

-x-x-x-

A week earlier, Alfred sat on the floor in a dark corner of his room with his knees drawn up to his chest. His desk was on the other side under an open window. The golden light of the setting sun streamed in and over the piles of battle plans, troop movements, and empty bottles of whiskey. He reeked of whiskey, vomit, and sweat. 

He had cordoned himself off in this room for two days, doing nothing but poring over war documents, getting himself as drunk as he could, and trying to convince himself that he was not about to go to war with his own people. 

He drank. 

He wept.

He drank some more. 

Now, with his liquor supply utterly spent and all of his tears dried up, he sat alone with his thoughts in the dark. His fingers played absentmindedly with the mouth of a bottle that sat between his bare feet. He stared forward at nothing, yet he could see everything that had led to this point. The growing rift between North and South. The compromises-shortcuts-that he had allowed to happen in order to attempt to maintain a fragile state of peace. Bleeding Kansas, slave hunts that were dragged into the North, broken ties between his people. He hadn’t seen the signs that were screaming at him until it was too late to stem the tide of war. 

He hated himself for it.

A knock sounded at the door. Alfred spat a nasty curse at the person on the other side of the door, but they simply turned a key and pushed through the door. It was Lincoln. He took one look at the state of the room and Alfred before shaking his head.

“Dear God Alfred, what have you done?”

Alfred glared at the President. His words were slurred together into a stream of nearly indiscernible words. 

“Get the frick frack paddy whack out of my room, Mr. President man.”

Lincoln raised an eyebrow and tried to smother something that resembled a giggle. “Excuse me?”

Alfred’s voice suddenly swelled to a level that startled Lincoln, “I said, get out of my room!” The bottle at his feet was thrown at the wall, nearly missing the President’s head. The glass shattered all over the floor. Slivers of glass slid across the wood and sparkled in the light. 

Lincoln paused and thought for a moment before he attempted to reenter the room. His leather shoes crunched over the glass. “Alfred, let me get you cleaned up. You’re of no use to anyone when you’re drunk out of your mind.”

“Whatever, stupid head,” Alfred mumbled. Lincoln rolled his eyes and walked up to Alfred’s crumpled form. “Go away, you dumb idiot!” He tried to slap Lincoln away unsuccessfully as Lincoln reached down, grasped him under his arms, and pulled him up to his feet. Alfred’s legs gave out, and Lincoln held him up against his body. “Alfred, please, pull yourself together!”

“Hey, what’s going…” Alfred’s voice drifted off, and it sounded distracted.

“Alfred… Please tell me you’re-”

What was left in Alfred’s stomach ended up on Lincoln’s vest and shirt, and dripped onto his shoes.  _ God help me not kill him right now,  _ Lincoln thought to himself. He took a moment to gather his thoughts before he held Alfred up so that they were looking into each other’s faces.

“Alfred, you are disgusting. Can you  _ please  _ pull yourself together for five minutes so I can at least get the… the vomit off of you?”

Alfred furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, then looked down at his bare chest that was covered in his sick. “Eww.”

“Yes, ‘eww’. Now let’s get you cleaned up. I’ll have someone make a pot of coffee for you.” Lincoln started to haul Alfred to the nearest bathroom. He called out to someone to fetch a set of clean clothes. 

“Mr. President man,” Alfred mumbled.

“What is it, Alfred?”

Alfred rolled his head to one side to get a better look at Lincoln. His eyes were glazed over and empty. “Is this my fault?”

Lincoln tightened his grip on Alfred’s body and sighed before he whispered, “No son, no it’s not.”

Alfred stumbled into one of the spare White House bedrooms that Lincoln had taken him to. He tried to lean against a table near the door, but knocked a lamp over by accident. He also completely missed the table and ended up sprawled on the floor. 

“Who moved that…?” Alfred’s slurred words to no one went unanswered. 

Determined to make it to the nearby bed, Alfred used the table to attempt to pull himself to his feet, but it took multiple tries to get himself on his unsteady feet. That’s when it caught his eye.

A stationery set, pen, and inkwell.

Alfred didn’t think. He only saw an opportunity, so he took it.

Fingers wrapped around the pen and with paper spread out before him, he scratched out a letter that he would never have written if he was sober.

At the top of the paper in nearly illegible handwriting, he addressed the letter to  _ Samuel L. Jones _ .

He then poured out his poor, drunken, broken and bleeding heart onto the page. 

 

 _You know, I don’t even know why we’re doing this. There’s no point to anything. I honestly can’t understand why the_ _hole_ _whole country is gonna kill each other over nothing. You know, this whole deal makes me think of when I got my_ _indapandance_ _indipendant interdepindence_ _indapendance_ _screw it_ _from_ _engwund_ _Englind_ _engaland_ _England, and I swear, I was so mad and I didn’t want to even look at him for months-no, years-after the whole shebang._ _Hah shebang. That’s fun to say. Shebang. Shebang. Shebang_ _. Everyone wants me to hate you but I just can’t do it, I mean, what’s so bad about you, huh? What’d you do, just try and do what I did. That’s all. I don’t blame you, honestly. You know something funny? I_ _pooked_ _puked on the President. Yeah, that was pretty funny. I’ve always wanted to do something funny like that. No one lets me do funny things. I’m a funny person, I swear. I wish you knew how funny I was. Maybe I’ll buy you a drink. I need a drinking_ _boody_ _booty_ _buddy. You know what, screw it, let’s just get drunk. I’d like that._ _Not like I’m drunk right now or anything. I’m totally sober. Seriously. Ask anybody._ _Do you like songs? I do_ _do haha do do_ _. You know, when I was a kid, Arthur used to sing me this song when I couldn’t sleep, which was all the time. Man, I used to drive Arthur crazy. Especially when Mattie was over. I told him that it was stupid, like him and those_ _callipitter_ _caterpillar eyebrows of his, but I actually liked it, you know? Makes me all_ _noostalgic nastologic_ _nostalgic and warm and fuzzy inside. Like whiskey. Whiskey is good. Lincoln took all my whiskey away. He’s a_ _idiot_ _stupid head. And his kids are annoying. And his wife makes me eat her disgusting pie. I hate her pie. It tastes like dirt. And she holds these weird_ _seeances_ _sayances_ _seances. She seriously thinks she can talk to the dead. They are pretty funny to watch though._ _Don’t tell anyone I said that._ _One time Mattie was over and he broke a vase and she thought it was the ghost.  I laughed so hard. I think Mattie still feels bad about it. We fixed it though, but it was a bad glue job. Mattie can’t fix things to save his life._ _Don’t tell him I said that either._

_ Sammy, buddy, I hate this whole deal.  _ _ Oh crap I spilt the bottle. Lincoln poo poo head is gonna be mad. This is his desk. I got kicked out of my room. _ _ I know you do too. It’s not too late to call it all off. I mean, if you even want to.  _ _ I want you to come home. _ _ Please. It’s lonely here.  _ _ I’m always by myself. I’m scared. _ _ I’d like for you to come and bring everyone back. No one needs to die.  _ _ I want you to stop it and come home. _

_ Alfred _

 

Samuel opened the door of his room, his bag slung over his back. The leather strap dug into his shoulder, and he pushed it up further onto his back. He slipped through the door and drew it shut behind him, careful of the creaking of the rusting hinges. He started down the hallway toward the front door, but found himself drawn to look into a room on his right. He cracked the door open only an inch, and he peered inside. The girl he had taken home last night was still fast asleep. Try as he might, he couldn’t manage to recall her name. He did remember that they had both been quite drunk last night, well, she had been. He had found that he possessed quite the ability to hold his liquor.

The girl was nestled under a sheet, her blonde hair spread out over the pillow in a halo of curls. She had the faintest shadow of a smile on her sleeping face. Samuel only watched her for a second more before deciding to sneak into the room. A pen and paper were sitting on the bedside table, and he jotted down a note for the girl to read when she woke up. 

 

_ Use the back door. Try to be quiet. _

_ S.L.J _

 

He blew on the ink to dry it before he folded the note and placed it gingerly on the sheet by the girl’s slender hand, which hung over the side of the bed. 

Samuel left the room without another word.

He walked down the hall and into the parlor, where a pile of letters were stacked untidily on a small table. Samuel picked up the stack and sifted through them, looking for anything that would interest him. A crumpled up and stained envelope caught his eye. It was addressed to him in sloppy, blotchy writing. Brow furrowed, he set the other letters down and slit the strange envelope open. From inside, he drew out Alfred’s letter. It was folded and creased every which way, and it felt like something had spilled on it and then dried. He put the paper under his nose and sniffed.  _ Whiskey.  _ Samuel unfolded the paper carefully and began to read. His eyebrows shot up instantly at everything that was misspelled and then crossed out, at the dried pools of ink. He read through slowly, taking great care in an attempt to follow what exactly Alfred was trying to say. When he reached the bottom of the page, strange drops blurred the ink on the paper. He very nearly thought that they could be teardrops, but he quickly tossed out the idea.

When he finished, Samuel stared at the letter. He didn’t do anything for a moment, he just thought. Finally, he sighed and shook his head. Samuel folded the letter back up, slipped it back into the envelope, and strode over to the kitchen. The stove was immediately to his right. He leaned over, opened the door to where the wood burned hot in the belly of the iron stove. He paused and looked at the envelope. The yellow of the paper blended with the orange of the glowing flames. The black letters stood out, dark as the night. He clenched his jaw. Heat bathed his face. Beads of sweat started to collect on his lip. His hands trembled ever so slightly. 

A flick of his wrist. The envelope caught flame the second it touched the red embers. It was engulfed in flickering yellow. The letter curled, scorched, disintegrated into ash. Pieces rose up into the chimney of the stove. Within five seconds, it was as if the letter had never existed at all.

Samuel straightened up, rolled his shoulders, and closed the door of the stove. He strode out of the house as quickly as he could. He had somewhere he had to be. He had a war to wage. 

_ I have no time for the ravings of a drunken, childish idiot. _


	9. A Line in the Sand

“Mr. Jones, you have a telegram.” 

Alfred looked up from his coffee and newspaper. He folded the paper and reached for the telegram, which the servant proceeded to hand to him. 

“Thank you,” Alfred said as he opened it. The yellow paper crinkled between his fingers, and he sat back as he read. 

 

_ Rebels in close proximity to Washington STOP Perceived target to be Manasses STOP Exact troop numbers are unknown STOP Should be an easy defeat STOP _

 

Alfred nodded and took another sip of his coffee. “Mr. President,” he called out over his shoulder. “You need to see this.”

Lincoln came out of an adjacent dining room with his one of his young sons, William, holding his hand. “What is it, Alfred?” Lincoln took the telegram from Alfred’s outstretched hand and read it while Alfred snuck William some candy that he had in his pocket. William smiled and took the candy, and Alfred put his finger to his lips. William nodded and put his finger to his own lips with a grin, his cheeks round with sweets. Alfred had grown close to William, and even though William was only four, William would follow Alfred all around the White House. He always wanted to include Alfred in his little games of imagination, and Alfred was always ‘it’ when it came time to play hide-and-seek. Alfred liked to give William little gifts when he could, such as candy and little wooden figures of people and animals that he would carve with a pocket knife, and William would bring Alfred gifts of his own in turn, mainly rocks and different things that he could find outside. Once, Alfred opened his desk drawer to find that William had left him a toad. 

While Lincoln was still reading the telegram with a creased brow, Alfred pulled a small wooden toy soldier from his pocket. William’s eyes grew wide as saucers, and his lips were spread in a wide smile. “I’ll tell you a secret,” Alfred whispered. “I was given a toy soldier just like this one when I was a little older than you.” 

“Really?” William whispered in awe. 

“Yes sir! Now you need to take good care of him, alright?” 

William nodded furiously. 

“Now go play while your father and I talk about boring grown-up things, okay?”

William ran off as fast as his little legs could carry him to the next room, where he instantly began to play with his new treasure. Alfred watched him for a moment, his mind suddenly filled with memories of his childhood with Arthur, of his young happiness, of his own little toy soldier, but he had little time to reminisce after days long past. 

“What do you think?” Alfred turned to face Lincoln, who had removed his spectacles upon finishing reading and pondering over the telegram. 

“I think,” Lincoln replied, “That this is the opportunity that we’ve been hoping for.” He smiled down at Alfred, and Alfred smiled back. “I’ll call the generals. Let’s meet them at Manassas. We can squash this rebellion once and for all.”

Alfred nodded and turned to watch little William play in the opposite room. The child was engrossed in a game with his new toy soldier, and Alfred frowned when William made loud noises to resemble gunshots. “Attack!” William cried, he and his new soldier sprinting across the room toward some unseen enemy. 

Alfred couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that he got as he watched William’s innocent game. His stomach turned and he thought that he may become sick. 

Lincoln watched Alfred observe William’s play for a moment before he attempted a remark. “Alfred, are you alright?”

Alfred blinked and stood up. “Yes, yes I’m fine.” He took one last look at William before speeding out of the room and slamming the door shut behind him. 

Lincoln frowned at Alfred and at his strange behavior, then faced what it was that had sent Alfred from the room. 

The toy soldier lay on its side against the wooden floorboards.

William danced and sang around it, reveling in the disgrace of his fallen enemy. 

-x-x-x-

Samuel stood with General Beauregard and twenty thousand troops on the field at Manassas. Alerted to the approach of the Union troops, Samuel and Beauregard decided to take the fight to them and meet them there. Samuel couldn’t get over the fact that Yankees had gathered on the ridge with their picnic lunches to watch the battle. He was sickened by it, not only because they thought that the Confederacy would roll over that easily, but because they actually  _ wanted to watch _ . 

“Can you believe the nerve of them?” Beauregard shook his head at the growing crowd on the ridge. “I’d bet that they brought their popcorn and candy and whatever else to snack on while they watch the massacre.”

Just then, the Union army crested the hill. All thirty-four thousand of them.

Beauregard whistled long and low. “They certainly don’t have a shortage of men, do they?” Samuel said nothing, but only crossed his arms. “They’re here. Let’s get on with it then.”

-x-x-x-

Samuel paced behind the Confederate line directly in front of Beauregard’s line of sight. Beauregard simply watched, only slightly annoyed. “Son, do something with yourself before you pace a ditch straight through this ground until you hit China.”

Samuel sighed, exasperated. “You can’t just expect me to stay back here while I allow men to go before me and die! I’ve got to go with them!”

Beauregard shook his head and crossed his arms. “I can’t let you do that, President’s orders. He wants to make sure that you’re physically stable enough to heal quickly like a normal nation before he allows you to jump headlong into a hail of Yankee bullets.”

Samuel rolled his eyes and started to walk toward the front Confederate line. Beauregard’s irate voice rang out above the heads of the soldiers that surrounded him. 

“Samuel Lee Jones, you listen to me-”

Samuel spun around to face Beauregard. “No,  _ you  _ listen to  _ me _ .” His voice was quiet, but forceful enough to make Beauregard think twice about interrupting. “I’ll do what I very well please, whether that coincides with what you want or not. Besides,” Samuel smirked with his parting sentence. “I outrank you.” He winked and turned toward the front of the Confederate lines. 

Beauregard yelled after Samuel, but he didn’t even pretend to care as he pushed his way to the front line, rifle slung over one shoulder and pistol hanging off of his hip. He drew up alongside a boy who looked to be about fifteen years old, his flaming red hair sticking out from under his cap in uneven tufts. “Can you believe this,” Samuel said softly to the boy, “These people come out in droves to watch a battle like it’s some kind of theatrical production.” He looked down at the boy and met his soft blue eyes. “Does this look like Shakespeare in the Park to you?” The boy shook his head quickly. Samuel noticed that the boy’s fingers were wrapped around his rifle so tightly that his knuckles were white. His slender shoulders shook ever so slightly under his jacket. 

“What’s your name?” Samuel asked the boy. His voice was soft and kind, and barely was loud enough to hear over the din of the army that surrounded them.

“Daniel.” His voice shook with the word. His lower lip began to tremble.

Samuel stood in front of Daniel and rested a hand on each of the boy’s shoulders. “Daniel, we are going to do this together, and we are going to be alright. You’re going to be alright. I won’t let anything happen to you. I swear it.”

Daniel searched Samuel’s eyes, his lower lip still trembling. He nodded and turned his face to the opposite side of the open field. “Alright. We can do this.”

Samuel ruffled Daniel’s hair lovingly. “That’s right we can.” The calls of the generals behind him drifted up on the wind. The Union army was cresting the far hill. 

Generals called to soldiers.

“Be ready!”

Rifles unslung. 

Powder poured down barrels. 

Bullets loaded. 

The sharp smell of gunpowder. 

The smell of sweat.

The sounds of desperate final prayers for safety.

A pause. 

The army drew a collective breath.

Thick silence fell over the ranks.

Samuel couldn’t still his pounding heart. 

_ So it begins. _

-x-x-x-

Alfred remained at the White House with Lincoln. He had the option to head down to Manassas, but decided against it. His place was with the President, he had decided. Battles could be won without him.  _ Besides _ , he thought,  _ it’s not like this is going to last very long anyway.  _ Startled, he shook his head quickly to clear the thought from his head. During times like this, when Alfred was under extreme stress and exhaustion, his mind was extremely susceptible to adapt to the thoughts of the people. He wondered at how the people of the United St-well, of the Union, could brush this sequence of events off as if they were nothing. No one seemed to understand that  _ they were at war with their brothers. _

Alfred sighed and gazed out of the window. The sun was just peeking out from behind a silver puff of cloud to spread its golden warmth over the dewy grass. This was going to be a long conflict. Alfred knew that no one would make it out of this ordeal unscathed.

Himself and Samuel the most of all.

As much as he fumed over the present status of the States, he could not help but feel pity for Samuel in his heart of hearts. Samuel was heading into this with no earthly sense of what was to come, and he was being led by men whose own eyes could not perceive the light of reason. 

The Blind leading the Lied To.

Straight into the grave.

-x-x-x-

The deep explosions of the faraway cannons reverberated in Samuel’s chest. The shelling had continued for what felt like forever, and everyone felt the growing restlessness and anticipation. The smoke had baptised the men in a burning gray that wove its bitter smell into their nostrils. Samuel anxiously fiddled with a loose button on his uniform jacket, his mind elsewhere. 

The sound of General Beauregard’s voice jerked his mind back to the present. 

“Ready your weapons!”

A sea of gray arms drew their weapons up to their chests. 

“Bayonets!”

The ring of steel through air cut through the din of battle. Thousands of bayonets, now fixed to their rifles, glinted sharply in the sunlight.

A steady breath in through his nostrils. A slow breath out through his sunburned lips. Samuel waited. 

There was a break in the Union line’s defenses. The Confederate cavalry was amid the Union artillery. An exposed flank. An opportunity.

Samuel could practically hear the smile on Beauregard’s face as he yelled, “Let’s go, boys!” No one could tell if Beauregard said anything more, because a cry had risen from the mouths of the men that was so great, every other sound was drowned out. 

Samuel was the first to sprint down the hill at the exposed Union soldiers. A wave of men crashed after him. The field was filled with what the Union men described as a sound that must have come from Hell itself. The Confederate men called it the sound of freedom. 

The space between the two armies diminished. Samuel counted the distance in pounding footfalls. His breath fell into a corresponding rhythm. 

A hasty line of defense was made. Someone on the other side yelled something. Everything seemed to move in half speed. 

The flash was blinding.

That’s when the screams started.

Men at Samuel’s left fell. As did men on his right. Hot lead bore into his ribs. His rage was swift and terrible.

Within moments, Samuel’s men broke over the line like water on rock. 

Everything was a blur. A face here, a rifle there, a smear of blue and of gray. A stab here, a kick to this man, a warm and sticky spray over skin, the taste of metal. Samuel couldn’t think. He could only move. His arms felt as if they weighed nothing and moved on their own. He tripped over the dead. The earth eagerly drank from their outpouring of blood. There was nothing else in the world outside of this, Samuel was convinced of it. He was aware of every miniscule thing. The weight of the rifle in his hands. The feel of the dirt under his feet. The cool stream of sweat that ran down his face. 

As quickly as it had started, it was over. Union soldiers that were still alive turned and ran. Confederate soldiers gave chase. Samuel’s breath rattled from his lungs. Nothing felt real. It was over already.

The gravity of what had just taken place fell on Samuel when he looked down and realized his bayonet was buried in the chest of a Union soldier, who could have been no older than sixteen. The boy’s eyes were wide open in terror and locked onto Samuel’s own.

He promptly fell to his knees and vomited. 

His screams tore their way through his chest and ripped through his throat. Tears poured from his eyes. The hot salt water mixed with the blood splattered on his cheeks. His hands, which were sticky and red, clutched at his hair. The sounds of the depths of his soul were heard by the living and the dying. No one could have cared. They were all broken.

-x-x-x-

“It’s a slaughter, sir. No fewer than three thousand estimated dead. The survivors are in a full scale retreat back to Washington.”

The words repeated themselves over and over in Alfred’s mind. He sat in a chair with his head was rested in his hands, his elbows on his knees. 

He wept for the dead. 

But most of all, he wept for the living. 

-x-x-x-

Samuel wandered the battlefield aimlessly, the burning pain in his ribs growing with each breath. He didn’t care though. He had to find Daniel. 

His eyes scanned the dead. His feet shuffled over the stinking grass. The vultures had already descended from where they circled in the wind to reap their spoils. 

Samuel searched until the shadows stretched long and grotesque on the ground. 

He never found him.

-x-x-x-

By the time Samuel stumbled into the General’s tent, he could hardly breathe. One look at him and Beauregard dropped the papers in his hand to rush forward and catch Samuel as he fell to his knees. Beauregard took one look at Samuel’s jacket soaked with his blood, cursed under his breath, and threw one arm over his shoulders. He half dragged, half carried Samuel to the medic tent. A nurse saw him and ushered him inside. The stench of blood and vomit assaulted Samuel’s nose. A table somewhere opened up, and together the nurse and Beauregard hoisted Samuel up onto it. As the nurse gathered a mishmash of bloody tools together, Beauregard ripped Samuel’s jacket open, then his shirt. His chest was drenched with sweat. 

“Hold him still,” the nurse yelled over the screams of a man to Samuel’s right. A quick glance over made him instantly wish he hadn’t looked at all. The man was having his leg amputated, and the saw was stuck. 

A scream of his own was caught in his throat. Fire licked at his side. The nurse dug for the bullet, but it had gone deep. She cursed, then shoved the forceps in, and the scream let loose from his lips. He could think of nothing else but the white-hot pain. He slammed a boot against the table in a vain attempt at lessening it. He writhed, but Beauregard held him fast. 

Time stood still, until- “Got it. Now put this on him tightly and get him out of here. Spare table! Oh, get that kid over here! Someone get me a tourniquet!” Something was pressed to Samuel’s side, and he was hauled off of the table and out of the tent.

“Jones, you are so stupid…” Beauregard had sat him down against a nearby tree and started to remove what was left of his torn and bloodied jacket and shirt. Every breath felt like knives in his lungs, but the pain was already starting to subside. Beauregard pressed a wad of cotton against his wound and wrapped a strip of cloth around his chest. “Alright, lean back and try to catch your breath.” Samuel did as he was told, and Beauregard held Samuel’s jaw in one hand. “Your color is already coming back. How’s it feel?” The pain had settled down into a steady throb, and Samuel nodded his head. “Be grateful that you’re already healing, or I think Davis might just have killed you himself. Now stay here and rest for a while, I’ve got to meet with the other generals about our victory.” With a slap on the shoulder, he was gone. 

Samuel closed his eyes and sighed. His mind was filled with pain and sorrow, and one question that he could not answer.

_ How am I going to do this alone? _


	10. Disenchanted

“It was a slaughter!” 

Alfred’s fist slammed down on the oaken table with enough force to upset two glasses of whiskey. The amber liquid spilled out over the surface of the table and dripped down onto the floor. No one moved to right the toppled crystal. All eyes were fixed on Alfred and his rage. He roared everything that he had kept inside of him for these three days since the battle at Manassas. His sorrow had grown and morphed into unspeakable fury. For now, these generals before him were the target of his wrath. 

“Three thousand casualties! Three thousand! That is  _ unacceptable! _ You insolent people actually believed that the Confederacy would see our armies and roll over in surrender? They took one look at our force at Manassas and desolated it!” Alfred’s pulse pounded in his forehead like a drum. “You lot turned tail and ran! They picked you off as you scattered into the hills!  _ They stopped and ate the picnic lunches that stupid civilians brought with them as those insolent rebels gave chase! _ ”

No one said a word. The generals gathered before Alfred all knew that he spoke the truth. 

Alfred took a deep and shaky breath, gently rested his hands on the table, then spoke again. His voice was dangerously low.

“The most dangerous thing that you can do is underestimate your enemy, and that’s exactly what you did. We paid for that in blood. I refuse to pay for that again.” His voice ripped through his throat again with renewed strength. “I _ will not _ pay for that again! If you lot can’t fight a war right, then I’ll do it for you!”

With one last fiery glance around the room, Alfred turned to storm out. In his path was the President. He was leaned against the doorway, eyes heavy and gray with sorrow. Alfred paused for only a second. He looked the President in the eyes, and his gaze cut Lincoln as if his eyes were knives. Alfred shoved past him out of the room and down the hall. He made sure to slam his shoulder into Lincoln’s as he pushed past. 

Alfred was enraged. His heart pounded hard enough in his chest to surely tear free of its cage. Something had let loose inside of Alfred that had not lit a fire inside of him like this since his own revolution. He often thought of his fight for independence nowadays, and he had felt for Samuel’s chaotic emotions at this time. However, now his sorrow was long forgotten. It was replaced completely with a consuming fire. Alfred was determined, mind set on one thing. 

He refused to sit here in Washington with the politicians. He couldn’t. His people were dying in droves, who was he to sit back and idly watch? 

To do nothing would be a blatant act of cowardice, and he was no coward.  

A small voice deep inside his mind tried to speak.  _ Alfred, this isn’t you! These are your people’s sentiments, not yours! You know that being emotional makes you susceptible to thoughts that are not your own. You must be patient! Stop this madness, it will get you nowhere except more pain and death! _

The voice was silenced nearly as soon as it started. 

No, he was going to get into the fray. He was going to run headlong into the line of the bullets. The flood of adrenaline in his body, yes, that was what he needed. He longed to bathe elbow-deep in blood once again. 

He would see this rebellion put down immediately. He would see the rebels beaten back and beaten down, and once they were finished, he would kill Samuel himself. 

He would level a pistol with Samuel’s head and put a bullet between his eyes.

-x-x-x-

The throbbing in Samuel’s chest was gone now, having healed up within these past two days. A nice round and pink scar with jagged red edges marred his skin between two of his lower ribs. While he was on the mend, he sat through political meetings, bored out of his mind. He knew that it was important to keep up with these proceedings, but he honestly wasn’t as interested. What he wanted to know was the fate of his people. How many were killed. How many wounded. How many missing in action. How many telegrams he would have to send home saying that a person’s loved one was never to return. This was what Samuel was concerned with, but he sat through the meetings of the more political nature nonetheless. He inserted his ideas here and there, but what he contributed most to was the strategy. If he saw something that could prove to be more dangerous than need be, he spoke up about it. The generals mainly accepted his input, and he was grateful for it.

When he wasn’t forced to sit through meetings, Samuel spent time with his men. He wasn’t put in charge of any, as enforced by President Davis, but he still sat with them, ate with them, swapped stories with them. To the regular soldier, Samuel wasn’t the nation they were fighting for. He was their friend. He was their advocate. He was their battle buddy, who would have their back whenever they needed him. 

Samuel was proud of that. He was proud to be called a “friend”. He was proud to be called “Sammy,” instead of Samuel for once. It reminded him of his younger days. Most of all, he was proud to be called “brother”. To be called so was what he deemed to be the highest honor that a man could bestow upon another. He wore the name as a badge upon his chest.

Despite being in the body of a twenty-one year-old man, Samuel’s mind was still reeling to catch up with his body. He had been a nation for less than a year after all, and he was having to learn everything as it was thrust upon him. Trapped deep inside of this strong, dashing, freshly battle-scarred body was a young and very scared nation that wanted to desperately wake up from this terrifying dream, filled with the screams of the dying. Samuel’s flesh fought that part of him down until it was buried so deep inside of him that he was sure that it could never resurface. Everything that he projected to the people around him- his confidence, the swagger in his step, his arrogance- was all a ploy to suffocate the small, barefoot, freckle-faced child in faded denim overalls that lived underneath it all. 

But no matter what he did, that child refused to die.

So Samuel lived with a permanent grin tacked onto his face, and all the while his heart tried desperately not to burst. The child would not die, could not die, so it lay buried and miserable, waiting for the day that it could be hidden no longer.

-x-x-x-

“Alfred, please sit down.”

Alfred remained stoic at the window. He gazed out, fully composed and pulled together after his outburst in the general’s meeting a day earlier. He wore a freshly laundered and pressed suit that was tailored perfectly to his body. Every one of his lean muscles were tensed. His hair was combed back against his scalp, but his cowlick refused to be tamed, so it stuck out to the side just as always. Jaw set, he reflected on his words and mulled them over in his mind. He chewed on them before he swallowed them back down again when the President spoke again. 

“Please sit.”

Again, Alfred refused to move. For now, he prefered to watch the breeze sway the blooming trees below. His face was softly reflected in the glass. The cold calculation in his eyes clashed with the warmth of the joyous spring air. 

Alfred heard Lincoln sigh behind him. Wood creaked as he shifted in his chair. 

“The battle at Manassas was a failure, I know, but you shouldn’t give General Irvin such a cold reception. He was only doing what he thought was right at the time.”

Alfred scoffed at the thought. “The man underestimates the enemy and then runs to save his own hide. He has yet to earn anything within the realm of my respect. When he has done so, then he can receive a ‘warmer reception’ from me. Until then, I refuse to speak to him.”

“Alfred, honestly-”

“Don’t try it sir. I’m not in the mood to argue with you about this. It wastes precious time.” He scowled. “Time that could be used to quell this rebellion.”

Lincoln withdrew a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket and spread it out on the table that he sat at. “Then let us discuss productive things.”

Silence fell between the two men. Alfred’s hands, which were grasping each other in front of his body, clenched tight enough that his fingernails cut deeply into his skin. He could feel a tiny spot of warm stickiness emerge from his palm. He barely noticed however. His mind was consumed. 

“When I was young,” he started, “I remember I was learning how to trap. We had a trapline that was being harassed by a wolf. The wolf was too large to confront directly, just Arthur and I, so we formulated a plan. If we could remove the food sources and kept it within a boundary, then the wolf would become weak enough for us to affront and kill. We slowly dwindled our bait in certain areas, which kept the wolf where we wanted him. That winter was harsh, and there was no food other than what we set out as bait for our traps. The wolf went hungry as he searched our traps and found nothing to eat. Eventually, we built a trap for the wolf itself and placed the bait inside. The wolf eagerly accepted the bait, and he was caught fast. We killed that wolf, and regained our trapline.” 

Alfred finally turned to face the President at his table. 

“The Confederacy is our wolf. We cut off its supplies, weaken it, strangle it, until it has no strength left to fight. We then come in for the kill. This is what needs to happen in order for us to win this war. Blockade every port in the South. Cut off all ties to the outside world. Let nothing in. Let nothing out. The South will slowly weaken and starve out, and that is when we take our victory. After all, cotton is king. If cotton can’t get out, that means no money is exchanged, and no food can get in. Victory is sure.”

Lincoln leaned back and rubbed his beard with a thumb. “That is quite brilliant Alfred. Quite brilliant.” 

Lincoln then slid to the edge of his seat and hovered over the paper that he had lain on the tabletop. A map of the United States, before the split. He then withdrew a pen from his pocket and extended his hand to Alfred. “Mark on this map how you believe this blockade should be, and I will run it by the generals. That way you don’t have to associate with them right now.”

Alfred eyed the pen, then locked eyes with Lincoln. A cold grin tugged at Alfred’s lips as he took the pen between his own fingers. 

“Let’s bag us a wolf.”


	11. Come What May

Samuel sat on a rock at the edge of a small creek a short walk away from his tent in the camp. He had left his boots under a nearby tree, and his shirts were hung on the branches to dry. His pants were rolled up to his knees. The water was cool on his bare feet. The sun beat down on his bare back. His pistol rested in the holster on his hip, as always. This was Samuel’s first moment of downtime in weeks, and he wanted to spend it the only way he really knew how: He desperately needed to bathe. 

Samuel sighed, knelt down to the water’s edge, and splashed the cool water onto his grimy face. Samuel now could finally unwind. The light glinted off of the water. Reeds swayed in the breeze. Samuel’s hair tickled the nape of his neck, and he ran his fingers through it. His hair had grown long in the past couple of months, and it was long enough to tie back now.

Samuel stood and stripped himself of his pistol, pants, and undergarments, then commenced to step into the cool water of the creek to scrub them clean of all of the dirt, blood, and grime that had accumulated on them. After a few minutes of hard scrubbing, he was satisfied with his work, so he walked to the tree and hung his clothes on the branches with the rest of his dripping clothing. Samuel then raced back to the creek. He splashed into the deepest part, which came up to his waist, and he splashed handfuls of water onto his chest, his back, and his arms. Dirt streamed off of his skin and into the water. He couldn’t remember the last time he had had a bath. He smiled and dunked his head forward into the water. He scrubbed his head and scalp until it hurt, and washed all of the dirt and blood out of his hair. Then he took a deep breath and sunk down in the water until he was completely submerged and sitting on the creek bottom. When Samuel opened his eyes, the greens and browns of the water reflected the golden sunlight above his head. What Samuel loved the most aside from the beauty of this undiscovered underwater world was the murky silence. Not a single sound could penetrate the watery roof above Samuel’s head.

_ This war is ugly… It seems so far away now…  _

His lungs burned, but Samuel ignored them.  _ Just a moment more… One more moment away…  _

Samuel craved the separatism from the world outside of this silent paradise. Quiet was a rare treasure, something that he prized above everything.

His body was screaming for breath, so Samuel reluctantly pushed his feet against the soft muddy bottom of his newfound respite from the world around him to stand. His body glided through the water, and his head broke the surface to reemerge into a world of chaos. He took a moment to breathe and steady himself on his feet, then he flipped his hair back and out of his face. Now the sounds of the camp reached him, along with everything that it entailed. 

_ Back to the real world then. _

Satisfied with the cleanliness of himself, he splashed out of the water and onto the bank. He laid down, closed his eyes, and breathed in deep the smell of the sweet air, the rich earth, the remnants of salty sweat on his tanned skin. His tanned, battle-scarred skin.

Samuel had gallantly borne the wrath of countless enemies, and his body told the story. Three bullet wounds–one in the chest, two in the stomach. Two stab wounds from bayonets–one in the side, one in the upper leg. A long and jagged gouge across his shoulders from a dagger. These all marred his body, the pink scars that named Samuel as a man that had no concept of the meaning of the word ‘fear’ when the bullets began to fly.

Samuel reached over to where his bag sat on the bank behind him. He dug through it and removed a matchbook, a tin of tobacco, and paper. He took a pinch of the tobacco and placed it carefully in the paper, rolled it tight, then licked the edge and sealed it shut. He struck a match that he had drawn from the matchbook and lit his cigarette. Samuel took a long, slow drag on his cigarette before he got up and withdrew his pistol from its holster where it hung on the tree branch. He eyed it, then made a mental note to clean it once he got back to his tent. He wished he had the supplies he needed so he could clean it now. It relaxed him.

He ran his thumb over the smooth wooden handle, then frowned.  _ There’s something on it,  _ he thought to himself. He spit on a dark smudge, then rubbed it with his thumb.  _ Oh wait, I know what this is.  _ He hadn’t cleaned his pistol off since the last battle. There, he had fought a man hand-to-hand, as both of the men had run out of bullets, and he had no choice but to beat the man over the head with his empty pistol. 

_ I’m cleaning brain matter off of my darned pistol.  _

Samuel sighed cooly and continued to clean the handle. He puffed on his cigarette, unphased. 

_ The stuff is impossible to get off once it dries. _

-x-x-x-

Samuel stayed at the creek for as long as he could, but he knew that he had to meet with General Jackson at supper, and he couldn’t very well meet him with no clothes, so Samuel dressed on the bank of the creek in the slowly fading light of the day. His pants were still wet, and his shirt was damp, but Samuel only shrugged it off. Once he was done however, he lingered to watch the light of the sun glint off of the surface of the water. He watched and he thought.

The war was going on longer than he had hoped that it would, but the South was faring well. They were taking their wins, and they were taking their losses. The Confederacy was doing well in its endeavour to obtain France and England’s support. The blockade runners were also doing well, thanks to England.  His men were fed and clothed, and morale was high. 

Samuel was just so tired. The invasion into the North was exhausting. The Union army had been chasing them ever since they had set foot on Union soil, never allowing them to rest. It was always fight, never stop, drive on, always forward. The generals pushed so hard that at the moment, Samuel had been awake for nearly thirty six hours. All he wanted to do was sleep, but sleep was a luxury reserved for the dead. 

The fight waited for no man, and Samuel made sure that he was always prepared to meet it, even if that meant sacrificing things like food and sleep.

A glance at the slowly slipping sun made Samuel turn away from the creek and make his way back to the camp. Something in his gut pulled at him to turn back, but he only walked on, his lengthened shadow leading the way.

-x-x-x-

Alfred reined his horse in to a halt, and slipped out of the saddle and onto the ground. Someone took the reins from him, and he strode determinedly into the tent in front of him. He started speaking the moment his foot entered the doorway of the tent.

“Someone tell me the battle plan quickly, so that I may have ample time to prepare.”

One of the generals stood up. “Sir, I don’t think that it’s such a good idea for you to join in the fighting. Frankly, you’re out of practice. Let others take your place. Besides, the President said–”

“Screw what the President says,” Alfred spat, clearly irritated. “I can make decisions for myself. I’m not some child that has to be babysat every hour of the day. And I am  _ not  _ about to simply  _ let others take my place _ .” He eyed the general who spoke harshly. “Now someone tell me the battle plans already before I have to squeeze them out of you lot myself.”

All of the men in the room were suddenly uncomfortably quiet. No one wanted to tell Alfred anything, but then again, none of them wanted not to tell him either. They all had heard that he was acting very strangely. He was making rash decisions, his judgement was impaired, he just simply was not himself. No one wanted to find out what happened when this new Alfred got angry.

One of the generals in the back stood up and started to present the battle plan in a slightly shaky voice. “We found their battle plans. I have the papers here.” The general held up a handful of papers. “We’ve gone over them already, you’re welcome to them.” Alfred was  interested, and he took the papers and started reading them. The general continued. “Our strategy is to attack them where they have set up their defenses, at Antietam Creek.” Alfred listened intently as the general laid out the details, then he asked something that took all of the men in the tent off guard. “Are any of you actually planning on advancing any farther into the battle than the back line?”

No one in the room said anything. The air was heavy with the unspoken answer.

Alfred sighed. “Didn’t think so.” With that comment, he walked to the door of the tent. Before he exited, he turned and said, “It has been quite a while since I have last killed a man, so yes, I am out of practice. You could even say that my battle skills are  _ rusty _ . However, I still remember it all as if it were in the thick of battle only yesterday. Personally, I think that you men have forgotten the taste of killing. I would suggest reacquainting yourselves with it, but I wouldn’t want you to soil your freshly pressed uniforms.”

With that, he stormed out of the tent.

-x-x-x-

As soon as the sun rose the next morning, Samuel awoke to a blood-red sky that was filled with the booming of cannons. 

The Union army had started their attack, and Samuel was ready for them. He and his platoon had stayed up during the night, for they were on watch. They were supposed to be relieved at dawn, but something inside of Samuel told them to hold off for just a few minutes. He had a feeling that something was going to happen, and his instincts were right. At the sound of the first crack of the cannons, he grabbed his rifle in his hand and sprinted down the stretch of hill to get to the main camp, all the while screaming at the top of his lungs, “Ready your weapons! We are under attack! Enemy fire! Ready your weapons!” Adrenaline flooded his veins. Any feeling of exhaustion was gone. When he saw the camp spring to life at the sound of his voice, Samuel spun on his heel and ran toward the front line. That was where he belonged. Fighting was all he knew. After all, it was what he was bred to do. 

-x-x-x-

Alfred knew that the Union army’s numbers vastly outnumbered the Confederacy’s, but he still couldn’t still the quivering of his heart at the sound of the cannons. It had been years since he had last picked up a rifle. His fingers weren’t back into the swing of it all yet, his nose wasn’t used to the stench of blood again. 

His horse shifted its weight excitedly underneath him, and he stroked its massive neck gently. He and his horse stood further back in the ranks up on a hill. He could see the field perfectly. If everything went according to plan as it should, then Alfred’s men should win the day. 

The cannon bombardment went on for about two hours, all of which Alfred spent quietly watching the battlefield like a hawk. He didn’t eat. He didn’t drink. He only watched. And waited.

He waited patiently until the orders came down.

“Come down at their upper left flank. Come down hard.”

Alfred smirked.

_ Oh, I’ll come down hard. _

-x-x-x-

Samuel hid his body behind the tree stump that he had made his temporary shelter during the cannon fire. His face was covered with sweat and grime. He sucked dust and smoke down his throat with every breath. A mangled body lay to his right only feet away. A cannon ball’s crater scarred the earth just past his feet.

That’s when the enemy pored over the crest of the hill and came down toward him. Samuel tightened his grip on his rifle and waited. He couldn’t wait to put as many of them in the ground as possible.

Steadily they came.

Patiently he waited.

He slowed his breathing down and brought his pounding heart rate down to a level that was easier to manage. His muscles tensed, ready to fire and send him headlong into the heat of battle.

He held up his hand. The soldiers behind him waited for his signal to advance.

Samuel waited until the enemy was nearly halfway down the hill for the yell to break from his lips, and at the sound, a swarm of his brothers charged the Union line.

In the face of his enemy, Samuel knew no fear, but an hour into the bloodshed, Samuel’s heart began to quiver for the first time.

Something was deadly wrong. He could feel it in the air.

The tides were beginning to turn, and not in his favor.

At that thought, Samuel’s hands began to shake.

-x-x-x-

Alfred watched the battle from the top of the hill. He was anxious to get down into the fray, but he had his orders. Watch and wait. 

_ More like ‘Watch and go crazy’,  _ he thought.  _ I just want to get down there… _

Someone walked up behind him. “Alfred Jones?”

Alfred turned around to face the man who spoke. “Yes?”

The man handed Alfred a piece of paper that had been folded in half. “This is for you. Straight from McClellan himself.”

_ McClellan?  _ Alfred thought. He took the paper and opened it. A short note had been scrawled in shaky handwriting.

 

_ Intelligence indicates that Samuel Lee Jones is here. _

_ He is to be apprehended by any means possible. _

 

Alfred clenched his jaw and stuffed the note into his pocket. 

_ He  _ was here. 

_ Well if there was any time to nail that smug piece of…  _ He took a slow breath to calm himself.  _ Well, there’s no time like the present. _

-x-x-x-

Samuel lunged again with his bayoneted rifle at the soldier in front of him. The blue uniform, now stained dark red, crumpled in a screaming heap onto the ground. Knowing that the man he had just stabbed would be dead any second, Samuel wrenched his rifle from his hand. He knelt behind the dying man’s form and fired the rifle at a charging assailant. The soldier fell dead from a shot through the head.

Samuel discarded his enemy’s now-spent rifle, picked up his own, and leapt over the body of the now dead soldier to meet another enemy head-on. A quick flick of the wrist disarmed him, a swift stab upward killed him. It seemed as if it were the same every time. Dodge a bullet, swipe the legs out from under your enemy, stab to the chest, repeat. Sweat dripped into Samuel’s eyes, which he quickly blinked away. Everything blurred together. He had lost track of the time. How long had it been? An hour? Two? Three? His legs burned and shook. His rifle felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds.  _ If I could just rest for one moment and breathe, then I’d be alright…  _

He gasped. He couldn’t draw a breath. A metallic taste came up from his throat and onto his tongue. Mind numbing pain shot up from his back to his brain. A cough. The ground flew up toward his face. He hit his knees. He felt the bayonet rip from his chest. 

_ Wait. _

Samuel took a strangled breath.

_ Now. _

He spun around, grabbed the soldier’s head, and flipped him over his shoulder. The soldier’s body slammed into the ground at Samuel’s knees, but he was back on his feet a second later. The Union soldier plowed into Samuel’s frame and drove him into the blood-soaked dirt. The two fought tooth and nail until Samuel found himself pinned down under the soldier’s knees. Fingers wrapped around Samuel’s throat. He clawed desperately at the enemy’s face but could make no headway. His vision was starting to go dark when he got his hand behind the soldier’s head. With a sharp twist and a crack, the soldier fell dead on top of Samuel’s chest, his neck snapped clean.

Samuel lay there under the soldier’s body and watched the battle unfold before his eyes. His men were falling just as fast as the enemy was.  _ It’s a meat grinder _ , he thought.

That’s when he realized that he couldn’t breathe. He tried to draw a breath, but he couldn’t get any air in. The bayonet to his chest had taken out one of his lungs.  _ Stupid thing is collapsed. _

He waited. Blood dripped from his gaping mouth and pooled under his body. His breaths became more and more shallow.

He wasn’t healing, and he knew what it meant.

For the first time, the favor of the war was turning against him, and Samuel was downright scared.


	12. Broken

Samuel lay under the body of the enemy for soldier for what felt like an eternity. The weight of the blue uniform and the body it encased grew heavier with each passing second. It felt like a millstone was sitting on his chest and crushing his bones.

_ Breathe. _

His racing heartbeat pounded in his ears mingled with the din of the battle that raged around him on every side. It was almost like some sort of sick joke. Here he lay, Samuel Lee Jones, the personification of the Confederate States of America, paralyzed by fear under the body of a man he had just killed. Oh the irony of it all.

_ Breathe. _

His breathing was shallow, wet, and haggard. Blood dribbled out of the corner of his mouth and ran into his ear. He knew that his lung had collapsed and was filling with blood, but normally it would have already healed by now, but this was no normal circumstance. Nothing was normal any more. He almost couldn’t think of what the word meant.

_ Breathe. _

He could feel that the tide of the battle had turned against him. He could feel his strength seep out of his body with each beat of his heart. 

A nation knows when he is being beaten, but accepting that fact is a whole different matter.

Yes, today would be the day that would be known as the turning point of this war.

But Samuel was not about to accept this. No, he would go down fighting even if it was the last thing that he did. He would fight until his last breath left his body. 

_ That fight… My fight… It starts now. _

Samuel squirmed under the weight of the dead body to get his hands on the man’s chest until his arms were the right position. With a painfully deep breath and a loud cry that lit his lungs on fire, Samuel threw the body of the dead soldier off of himself and to the side. It hit the bloodsoaked ground with a thud. Free from the crushing weight on his chest, he thought that that would ease his breathing some, but he found no relief. Every sucking breath made him feel as if he were drowning in his own lungs. Maybe he was. Here he lay, an island in the middle of a sea of blood and gore, stranded without hope of rescue. 

He was also incredibly exposed to the bloodthirsty sharks that hunted in that ocean.

The blue soldier appeared out of seemingly nowhere and towered over Samuel’s shaking frame. His bayoneted rifle was raised and poised to strike at Samuel’s heart, and his mouth was twisted into something between a grimace and a maddened grin. He opened his mouth to let loose a cry as he would drive his bayonet deep into Samuel’s chest, but the sound was never able to leave his throat. A bullet from Samuel’s pistol silenced him as it found its resting place deep in his brain. Stunned and wide-eyed, the soldier staggered backward one, two, three shaky steps before he crumpled to the ground, dead. 

Samuel took a breath and lowered his smoking pistol. He was out of bullets and in no shape to fight, but the enemy was in no short supply. So… He would have to improvise.

He glanced at the empty pistol in his hand, raised an eyebrow, and flipped the pistol in the air so that he caught the barrel between his bloody fingers. 

He may have been out of bullets, but he was in no way out of weapons. 

He would fight the enemy with his bare hands if the need arose. 

Samuel carefully rolled on his side and propped himself up on his elbow. Just a few feet away lay a stunned enemy soldier, exposed and blind to Samuel’s position.

Samuel grinned to himself and even managed a raspy chuckle. He turned his head and spit a crimson stream out onto the ground, then lifted his fist to smear the blood on his chin away. He took a shaky breath and started to crawl. His fingers dug into the dirt and laced in between crushed blades of grass. He pulled his body across the ground slowly, painfully, with gritted teeth and with sweat constantly dripping into his eyes. His teeth bit into his lip hard enough to draw blood as he pushed himself up onto his knees, then shakily onto his feet. His legs were steadier now than they would have been a few minutes ago. That brought a smile to Samuel’s chapped and split lips. 

This battle was far from over. 

Oh no, the fun was only just beginning. 

-x-x-x-

Alfred could barely contain himself as he spurred his horse down the slope of the hill. The paper in his pocket that called for the capture of Samuel at any cost weighed heavy as a stone, but it made his head feel light with anticipation. The horse’s thundering hooves kicked up clods of dirt and grass and flung them into the air. Sweat beaded on his forehead as the noonday sun beat down on his brow. The stench of the battle below wafted up and into his nose. He eagerly drank it in and relished in its taste. The horse snorted and threw its head, and its eyes widened in fear at the sudden onslaught of the smell of death in its nose, but Alfred only spurred it on harder. 

His only thought was that of Samuel, and of how sweet the moment would be when Alfred would raise his pistol and put a bullet between his eyes.

With the battle growing closer by the second, Alfred put the reins in his left hand and brandished his sword with a flourish. The spotless razor-sharp silver blade shone blindingly in the sunlight. His fingers tightened on the hilt, and he held his breath. 

When was the last time he had killed a man? It had been a few years, not since he had been first brought to fight the Navajo uprisings in the West. However, the time he had spent away from battle didn’t mean that he had any second thoughts about running headlong into this bloodbath. 

On the contrary. He was uncharacteristically ecstatic about getting his hands dirty once again. It was strange, he thought, how eager he was to take a life and snuff it out, to wade knee-deep in the bloodsoaked grass. He had never been this willing to kill, not even in his revolutionary days. 

He almost started to question himself, but his thoughts fled his mind when his arm automatically swung out and his sword sliced through gray-clad rebel flesh. The red blood stood out starkly against the perfect silver of the blade. Tiny rivulets slid down and drip, drip, dripped off the point of the sword. 

Alfred licked his lips and grinned, but his eyes were void of any semblance of himself.

The Alfred F. Jones that he truly was had been gutted and replaced with the Alfred F. Jones that the States of the Union wanted him to be. Who his people wanted him to be.

The new Alfred took a deep breath in through his nose, savoring the stench of blood, of filth, of bodies left to bloat and rot in the searing sun.

_ Oh, that’s good. _

-x-x-x-

Samuel pushed himself up onto his elbows from where he lay exhausted overtop of the body of his latest kill. His chest rose and fell laboriously, forcing his breath through parted lips. Loose hair that had come out of his ponytail stuck to the blood and the brain matter that was splattered across his face and neck. Something itched at his cheek so he absentmindedly brushed it away with a finger. White flecks of bone fell to the ground at his touch. He paid them no mind. His eyes were glued on a figure down the field.

“No way,” Samuel whispered to himself.  _ My eyes must be playing tricks on me,  _ he thought. He shook his head and looked again. Sure enough, there he was, riding his horse and blindly slashing away at any soldier unfortunate enough to be within arms’ reach. 

Alfred F. Jones. And he was only fifty feet away. 

The very last person he thought he would see here, but the very person he needed to see here. With Alfred being holed up in Washington for the entirety of the war so far, Samuel didn’t know why he was here, nor did he really care. What mattered was that he was not the kind of man to pass up an opportunity like this. 

Samuel quickly pulled his latest victim’s rifle from beside the body and raised it to his shoulder. He leaned on the soldier’s body to steady his aim as he lined the sight up so that it rested on his target. The blond and blue-clad nation was completely blind and unaware that a rifle’s sights were lined up on his head. 

Samuel rested his finger on the trigger and tightened his grip on the rifle. 

_ Breathe.  _

The battle slowed, the screams of dying men and booms of cannons quieted, the world stopped turning as Samuel zeroed in on his target. He started to squeeze the trigger, then stopped. 

He wasn’t going to shoot Alfred. 

No, he had a better idea.

The sight of the rifle shifted away from Alfred’s head and found a new target. 

Samuel chuckled to himself and shook his head.  _ You’re too smart for your own good,  _ he thought. 

He didn’t hesitate this time.

He pulled the trigger and fired his rifle, and the bullet found its home only a short distance away. Samuel smirked.  _ Yes, entirely too smart for your own good. _

Alfred’s horse was dead before its body slammed into the blood soaked earth. Alfred was thrown headlong through the air and into the ground with bone-crushing force. 

Samuel pushed himself up onto his knees, then eased himself up onto his feet. He paused, thought, then chanced a deep breath. He smiled when his lungs slowly drank in the air. 

He was healing. Slowly, yes, but healing nonetheless.

Samuel smirked, spat a stream of red at his feet, and slung the rifle over his shoulder. Shaking his head, he slowly crossed the distance between himself and Alfred’s groaning figure. As the seconds passed, the tension in the air multiplied by tenfold. Alfred was oblivious to Samuel’s slow and casual approach. His back was to Samuel, and his attention was focused on a steadily bleeding cut on his face and his bleeding nose. Obscenities streamed out of his mouth by the dozens, and Samuel took a moment to watch.  _ So this is what power is,  _ he thought.  _ Holding a man’s life in your hands, and they are none the wiser.  _

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Alfred,” he mocked, crossing his arms as he stopped just behind Alfred’s hunched form. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

Alfred froze. He knew that voice. That voice, smooth as silk and sweeter than honey. That unmistakable Southern drawl. It had been months since he had last heard that voice. Images of a lonely balcony, an overcrowded party, and cigarette smoke flooded his mind. 

He knew who was standing ever so smugly behind him. 

Samuel. 

Alfred didn’t move. He needed to stall, to think, to plan, but his first thought jumped out of his mouth before he could stop it. “You sly bas–”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Samuel lightly scolded. He was just within arms’ reach of Alfred. “Save your breath. You’re going to need it.” 

He kicked Alfred in the rear with his boot as hard as he could. 

“Get up!” 

Alfred stumbled forward and tried to crawl out of Samuel’s reach on his hands and knees, but Samuel would have none of it. 

“I said get up!” 

He kicked Alfred again, this time in the side, and the force of it threw Alfred to the side and onto his back. Cautious, Alfred stood to his feet, one hand holding his side. He knew he had to be careful now. From this moment on, he would be playing with fire, and he had to watch himself carefully to keep from getting burned. 

Alfred swallowed, licked his lips. He opened his mouth, but his voice quivered in the smoky air around them. “What do you want?”

The warm and golden laugh that rolled over Samuel’s lips took Alfred off guard. For a split second, the smile that spread over the golden haired youth’s barely-freckled and sunburned features reminded him of a vague feeling of a summer breeze over a Southern pine forest, of warm red clay, of a cane fishing pole resting on the bank of a creek. In that one fraction of a moment, Alfred could see a lost part of himself. A part that had been taken from him a long time ago and desperately wanted to regain. 

The moment fled nearly as soon as Alfred recognized it. 

The vision was chased away by the twisted and empty gleam in Samuel’s eyes. The stunning azure was cold as ice, glazed over, and dead. 

“You’ve put a price on my head, have you not?” Samuel said once he reigned in his laughter. He didn’t wait for any sort of response, but started to gesture with his bloody hands and slowly circle Alfred’s stock still body as he spoke. The hair on the back of Alfred’s neck bristled. 

“I’m just curious,” Samuel drawled. “Just how much have you and your Washington goons put on my head? Five hundred dollars? A thousand? More?” He raised an eyebrow and nibbled on his lip as he traced his index finger across Alfred’s rigid shoulders. “Well now you’ve got me. The great Alfred F. Jones of the Union has finally caught me. Aren’t you proud?”

Samuel leaned over Alfred’s shoulder so that his face was inches away from Alfred’s cheek. His whisper was a purr that could barely be heard over the din of the battle around them. Everything seemed to slow down so that everything surrounding the two was a blur of blue and gray. 

“Come on Alfred, I’m  _ begging  _ you. Be the hero you always fancied yourself to be. Or are you too much of a coward?”

Alfred’s breath was caught in his throat. He wanted to scream and strangle the life out of the man that stood beside him now, breathing against his neck. He wanted to run, he wanted to kill something, he wanted all of these things all at once. All he could do was hold himself together, to try and think semi-logically in each passing moment and not lose his head. 

Samuel chuckled low in his throat at Alfred’s slowly reddening face. This whole deal was turning into the most fun that he had had in days. He didn’t even try to hide his pleasure when he reached over and shoved Alfred’s head with a hand. Alfred nearly lost himself, but Samuel was having the time of his life.

Samuel now stood just in front of Alfred and sneered. “Come on,” he screamed. “Be the hero!” Veins bulged in his neck and face, and spittle flew from his lips with each annunciation. 

“ _ Be the hero! _ ”

Then, as suddenly as he had began to scream, he returned to his cool and collected self. Samuel plastered the fakest of smiles onto his blood-splattered face, bent over at the waist, and spread his arms wide with a mocking flourish. 

“Forgive me,” he cooed, “Be the hero  _ sir _ .”

Alfred came unhinged. His right fist flew up on its own accord and tried to make contact with Samuel’s jaw, but Samuel nimbly dodged Alfred’s attack with his trademark lopsided grin. Alfred followed up his first punch with a left hook to the ribs, but Samuel deflected his fist with ease. Samuel’s body slipped through the air to the left, right, up, down, and to the side with every sloppy punch Alfred tried to throw. In his rage, Alfred’s wits fled him, and he threw fists, knees, elbows, anything to try and make contact with Samuel, but everything he tried amounted to nothing. Samuel was just too quick, which made no sense. He was covered in blood and God only knows what else, and Alfred could see bloody wounds, but they seemed to not even phase him. The man was untouchable, impenetrable, an unassailable fortress. No matter what he did, he could make no headway against him. Samuel would always slip just out of his reach at the very last second, and all the while he smiled. The grin that was constantly spread on Samuel’s face made Alfred’s blood boil. He was toying with him, having fun, playing with him as a cat plays with a dying fledgling just before the death blow is dealt. As the minutes passed, Alfred was slowly getting winded, but Samuel hadn’t even broken a sweat yet. Also, Alfred noticed that Samuel kept looking to the side and behind him, almost as if he were looking for someone. 

“Come on!” Alfred shrieked. His frustration had finally become too much for him to contain, and his rage poured out of him with every syllable that he spat from his lips. “Come on, you coward! Fight me like a man!”

Samuel raised an eyebrow at Alfred’s outpouring of frustration. He knew that Alfred was aware that he was outmatched, but his stubbornness was proving to be interesting. Samuel could tell that Alfred wasn’t used to someone outmaneuvering him or showing him to be lacking in strength, but it made sense that Alfred wasn’t in top shape. 

Half of himself was what made Samuel, after all.

It was true that Samuel was itching to throw a punch and draw first blood, but he had to be patient. Also, he needed help. Standing in front of him was a gold mine of information, quite possibly every iota of the Union’s battle and political plans, and if he was going to benefit from Alfred’s brain, he needed a few more sets of hands to help him with his plan. 

If it went off without a hitch, then Samuel would be hailed as a hero.

Samuel’s eyes flicked to the side and his gaze locked with another soldier’s. The soldier, a gruff man in his late thirties, nodded quickly and got the attention of two other gray-clad soldiers. All three of them quietly picked up their rifles and slowly approached Alfred from behind. Alfred was too wrapped up in his rage to notice any of these proceedings. 

Alfred threw his arms out to the side. He was completely done fooling with Samuel. “What are you waiting for?” he screamed. 

Samuel drilled Alfred with a hard stare, then nodded ever so slightly. The gruff soldier slammed his rifle into Alfred’s skull from behind, and Alfred dropped to the dirt like a stone. 

Samuel slowly stepped up to Alfred’s crumpled body and eyed him closely. He couldn’t hide his smug grin. 

_ Didn’t see that one coming did you? _

Alfred groaned and shut his eyes tightly.  _ What in the world…  _ He gingerly reached his fingers to the back of his head and felt the warm stickiness of blood. Slowly, he opened his eyes. His stomach turned when he saw Samuel standing over him, his ever-present grin plastered on his mouth. 

Samuel looked down on Alfred’s helpless state with a strange blend of feeling both pride and power.  _ A beautiful combination,  _ he thought to himself.  _ It’s time to get things moving though. _

Samuel held up a hand and waved down at Alfred, then chuckled when Alfred frowned up at him. 

_ What in the world is he doing?  _ Alfred thought.

Samuel grinned widely, then winked. It was boyish. It was malicious.

“Sweet dreams, Al.”

He raised his boot and slammed it down on Alfred’s temple with enough force to break his skull. Alfred’s world went black and his body went limp. He hardly realized what had happened before he lost consciousness.

Samuel quickly bent down and threw Alfred’s arm over his shoulders and lifted his limp body to his feet. “Let’s get him out of here,” he said to the soldiers who stood behind Alfred, “I’ve got special plans for him.”


	13. Open Wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains torture. If this is a trigger for you, please skip this chapter. If not, then read on nerds.

When Alfred came back to consciousness, everything around him was silent. His raspy breathing sounded sharp against the stifling silence around him.

_ What… What happened…  _

The air was oppressively thick with the smell of cigarette smoke and sweat, along with a twinge of whiskey. Something was dried against both the side and the back of his head, something that he vaguely remembered as being blood.

_ The pounding in my head…  _

He was sitting up on what felt like a wooden chair. He tried to move, but his arms and legs were bound fast to what he gathered were the legs of the chair. A clinking of metal met his ears, and something sharp poked at his wrists and ankles. His joints were stiff and sore.  _ How long have I been out?  _ Confused, he eased his eyes open. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but once they did, he didn’t know what to make of the scene that greeted his eyes. 

He was sitting in the middle of a small enclosed room no more than ten feet in length on either side. His feet were bare and cold as ice, and he could feel from the grittiness beneath his toes that the floor was rough unfinished stone. Out of the corner of his eye, he could make out the outline of a long table set against the wall. There was hardly any light to pierce the inky blackness that pressed in from all sides around him save for faint starlight coming into the room from behind him, along with the red glow of a burning cigarette directly in front of him. The cigarette’s burning end illuminated the hollows and features of a face. 

Alfred instantly recognized the face, and a cold stone dropped down into his stomach.

It was Samuel.

_ My God…  _

Instantly, everything rushed to the forefront of his mind. The battle, the hunt for Samuel, the confrontation, and the the hellish kick to his skull that knocked him unconscious. The wink Samuel gave him just before everything went dark seared itself into his mind. 

Alfred’s stomach turned at the sight of his face, and hatred burned like acid inside of him.

As Alfred’s eyes adjusted better to the darkness, he could better make out the shape of Samuel’s body. He was reclining in a chair much like his own, with one ankle crossed over his thigh and one hand on his knee. The other hand’s index and middle fingers gently held the cigarette in front of his lips, and he let it slowly smolder in front of him. Samuel’s eyes looked like empty black holes of nothing. 

His lips were pulled into a smile that sent chills down Alfred’s spine. It was vacant, cold, dead. 

The two men stared unmoving at each other over the two foot chasm that lay between them for what felt like an eternity. The only movement that broke the stillness was when Samuel flicked the ash off of the end of the cigarette with his thumb or when he placed the cigarette between his lips, took a long and slow drag, and blew the smoke out of his nostrils slowly as if he were enjoying the moment. The smoke bathed Alfred’s face and it curled into his nose and through his hair, but he didn’t flinch. He focused solely on the red glow of the cigarette, not on the man who held it.

Suddenly, Samuel uncrossed his legs and leaned his chair backwards, then he knocked on the wooden door behind him. Instantly, a lock slid and the door opened, and Samuel righted his chair. A column of soft and flickering yellow light stretched through the opening of the door and draped over Alfred’s toes. Two men with kerosene lanterns entered the cramped room and stood by the table along the wall where they set their lamps. One man slung a large canvas bag onto the table that clanged when its contents hit the table’s surface. Their eyes were glued on Alfred, who for the first time, had a chance to take a good look at his captors.

The two men who walked into the room with the lamps were disheveled and swathed in grime. Their gray uniforms were bloody and stained, but they were of little importance to Alfred compared to Samuel.

In stark contrast to his companions, Samuel was pulled together perfectly. His hair was washed, combed, and tied back. Every part of his suntanned skin was scrubbed clean to the point that the faint freckles that spotted his nose and cheeks were easily visible. Even his nails were spotless. There wasn’t even a hint of a wrinkle in neither his loose white ivory-buttoned shirt or his dark slacks. His black leather shoes were shined to perfection. He looked nothing like the madman he met on the battlefield, but Alfred felt that the veil between this version of Samuel and the killer he met a short time ago was paper thin. He thought back to when last they had met, on the balcony at the party. 

_ This man,  _ he thought,  _ he can change on a dime. He has got to be swayed easily by his people. I know I was when I first got started.  _ Alfred thought about how his thoughts had so easily flipped from boyish shenanigans to dark desires in those early days. He thought back to the Indian Removal and of what he did, how awful his actions were, how inhuman he was, how sick he felt when he finally regained control of himself. Those were days that he wished to forget. To this day he still drank himself into a stupor on the anniversary of the passing of the Indian Removal Act. He shuddered at the thought, then stared at the man before him. 

_ It took me years to become able to control my people’s influence on my mind, and even then that was with England’s help.  _

He swallowed, but his throat was suddenly all too dry. The hatred that burned inside of him diminished instantly.

_ Samuel has no one. He’s trying to figure this out all on his own. _

Alfred met Samuel’s eyes and searched them. His palms began to sweat, and grief suddenly swelled up in his heart. He knew the emptiness in Samuel’s eyes.

_ His states have completely gutted him, they’ve taken over everything. There’s no way he has any control.  _

Alfred’s eyes softened.  _ He’s got to be terrified.  _

After a terse silence, Samuel leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He looked at Alfred very seriously for a moment, then cracked a questioning grin. 

His cigarette danced between his lips as he asked what Alfred thought was the strangest question, “Do you drink?”

Alfred didn’t know what to say to this, so he didn’t say anything at all.  _ No matter what he does, remember that he can’t stop it. He has no control. This isn’t him. This isn’t him. _

Samuel let the question linger in the air, then shrugged the silence off before continuing with his thought. “Well, I do, but we can’t make any booze down here because we need the corn. Which is a tragedy, really. When I do happen to find some though, I try to grab it up as fast as I can.” 

_ Where are his states going with this?  _ Alfred thought.

“I recently came into a bottle of Old Crow,” Samuel remarked casually before he dropped what was left of his cigarette onto the stone floor and crushed it under his booted heel. He then reached into his right pocket and withdrew a silver flask, which he absentmindedly flipped in his palm as he talked. “That’s what your general, what’s his name–Grant!–likes, isn’t it? I’ve heard he is quite fond of the bottle, if you know what I mean.” He tipped his hand up as if it were a bottle and made  _ glub, glub, glub  _ noises, which threw him into a fit of deranged giggles.

Alfred sighed, his face pained _. He’s so far gone… There’s no way I can reach him. _

Samuel continued to laugh at himself for nearly fifteen seconds before pulling himself together with a sigh and leaning forward to withdraw a crystal bottle filled with an amber liquid from under his chair. The bottle landed on top of his knee with a dull thud and Samuel leaned back in his chair. He twisted the top off of the bottle, tossed it away, and opened his flask with his other hand and started to refill it. Almost as if he had forgotten Alfred’s presence, he became engrossed with the amber flow of the whiskey. His head snapped up suddenly, and he held the bottle out to Alfred. “Are you thirsty?” he asked. 

Alfred didn’t respond. He didn’t even acknowledge that the bottle was being offered. He thought back to all of the horrible things that he had said about Samuel before, and they made him feel sick.  _ He’s just a kid, he doesn’t deserve this. No one deserves this. _

Samuel continued to hold the bottle out toward Alfred. “You’ve got to be a little thirsty, you haven’t had anything to drink in hours.”

Alfred swallowed, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He was thirsty, but for water, not whiskey. A gnawing in his stomach grew with every second. He didn’t know how long he had been unconscious, but it had been a number of hours. He chewed nervously on his cheek. He  _ was _ thirsty though… 

But there was something in that lopsided grin that Samuel proudly tacked onto his face was very, very wrong.

A rustle of fabric came from Alfred’s left, and before he could turn his head to look, a hood was roughly thrown over his head. Hands jerked his neck back so that his head was tilted behind him, and another pair of hands held his frame steady against the back of the chair. Alfred tried to struggle and fight, but sharp metal spikes dug into his wrists and ankles with even the slightest movement. He could already feel blood trickle down the back of his hands and dribble to the tips of his fingers.

“Samuel,” he pleaded through shaking lips, “Samuel listen to me, please, you’ve got to fight them! I know this isn’t you!”

Alfred could see enough through the rough fabric over his head to make out Samuel’s figure. It rose from the chair and slinked to Alfred’s shoulder slowly, letting every footfall echo around the corners of the room. Alfred’s breath caught in his throat.

“Come on,” Samuel cooed from above, his voice unwavering and sweet. He raised his arm and held the open bottle of whiskey over Alfred’s head. Slowly it tipped forward. Alfred could smell the whiskey, and it turned his stomach. 

“Samuel, please-!”

Samuel’s words dripped from his lips like honey. 

“Have a drink.”

Alfred’s scream ripped through his throat and shattered the night’s uneasy silence. 

“ _ Sammy! _ ”

-x-x-x-

Samuel watched the golden whiskey spill from the open mouth of the bottle onto Alfred’s hooded face, emotionless. Alfred choked, coughed, gasped, and gagged. Samuel’s face, however, was stone. 

He wanted to make this stop, he really did, but… He just couldn’t bring himself to do it. 

It sounded sick, but he was almost enjoying this.

He felt as if he were split into two people, but these two people resided in the same body. What was it Lincoln had said? ‘A house divided against itself cannot stand’? How could he want one thing, while this other rivaling, primal side wanted the complete opposite? Where did it even come from?

Who even was he?

_ How can a man feel his heart beat in his chest, but not know who it beats for? _

Sickened at what his own hand was doing, he lifted his flask to his lips and sucked down one, two, three gulps of the whiskey. It burned all the way down his throat until it settled deep in the pit of his stomach. It was the only warmth he felt in his body at all, aside from the burning of buried tears in his eyes.

_ Cheers. _

-x-x-x-

 

Alfred’s hood was ripped off of his head and his body surged forward. He vomited up the contents of his stomach onto his knees, which was all whiskey and bile. He coughed until his ribs hurt, and snot and saliva dripped from his nose and lips. He sucked air into his lungs only to cough it back out. His eyes burned so badly he couldn’t open them, and his nose felt as if Samuel had poured acid into it. Tears streamed from his swollen eyelids. The hair that wasn’t plastered to his forehead or neck stuck out in all directions and was soaked with whiskey and sweat. Alfred’s chest heaved as he tried to expel the whiskey from his lungs, but he ended up just vomiting more.

His body slumped forward and shook like a leaf. He could barely form a thought in his mind outside of  _ God help me. _

Footsteps slowly circled his chair. They went around him once, twice. A hand roughly shoved Alfred’s head to the side, wrenching his neck to an angle that it was never meant to go with a sharp crack. Alfred groaned, then fell silent again. Footsteps circled his chair once more, then they stepped to the side. The empty glass whiskey bottle is placed gingerly on the table on his left. Alfred could hear a rustling through the bag on the table. Metal clanged together, followed by a succession of thuds. Alfred tried to count them, but he didn’t bother with it after he realized what was happening. He tried to swallow the lump that instantly formed in his throat.

_ He’s laying out his tools. _

By now, Alfred’s breathing had settled down into to a haggard rhythm. He sucked in a lungful of air, then let it rattle out of his chest. His pounding heart picked up speed until he was sure that it had never beaten so hard or so fast before in his life. He didn’t want to admit it to himself, but he had to. He was scared out of his mind. He had heard the horror stories of what Confederate soldiers did to Union prisoners of war. They were brutal, ruthless, inhuman. Combining this reputation with a gutted nation resulted in something that Alfred wanted nothing to do with, but now this fate was staring him directly in the face. 

He nervously picked at his fingernails behind his back _._ _What am I going to do?_

Alfred slowly straightened his spine so that his back rested against the chair. He sighed, then opened his swollen and bloodshot eyes. 

Samuel was leaned against the wall by the table, his arms crossed against his chest, his expression smug yet strangely unreadable. His usually crystal-clear blue eyes were empty and dull. He looked present, yet not there at all. It was almost as if he were watching Alfred from a distance. He forced his eyes to remain on Samuel so he could keep them from roaming to see God knows what was laid out on the table. 

He tried, he really did, but his twisting stomach got the better of him. He had to look.

He took one glance at the table and nearly vomited out of sheer terror.

Laid out on the wooden table from one end to the other were metal instruments that struck fear into his very core.

Rusted metal stakes as long as his forearm, thick leather straps and lengths of rope, hammers, saws, knives, a box that emitted scratching sounds and squeaks, buckets and long metal hooks.

_ I’m screwed. _

Samuel watched Alfred closely for a few moments, then stepped up to his chair opposite Alfred and eased himself back into it. Every few seconds he would drink long and slow from his flask until he had sucked it dry. With nothing to steady himself, he ordered one of his men to go and find him something more to drink. Once the man left, he stood from his chair and ceded the comfort of whiskey for pacing back and forth across the room, one fingernail between his teeth that he would chew until it bled, then he moved on to the next finger, then the next. 

Alfred watched him cautiously out of the corner of his eye. Now, every time he looked at Samuel, he saw a piece of himself. One moment it could be the way he walked, the next it could be the way he ran his fingers through his hair, and the moment after that it could be the flicker of fire in his eyes.

_ I was wrong,  _ Alfred thought.  _ He really is my brother. No wonder I couldn’t see it before. I was wounded and he was overtaken by his people. Both of us were wearing blinders over our eyes, and neither of us could realize the other as a man. I just can’t bear to see him like this… _

Samuel rubbed his face with one hand, then started to roll up his sleeves. 

_ If he isn’t my spitting image…  _ Alfred mused.

“Tell me Alfred,” Samuel remarked casually. His voice rang hollow and empty as he absentmindedly ran his fingers over the edge of the table while he slowly walked past it. His hand grasped one of the metal stakes, and he flipped it in the air once. “The Army of the Potomac.” He let a pause linger in the air before he continued speaking. “Where is its’ next heading?”

Alfred clenched his jaw. He tried to not look at the rusted spike in Samuel’s hand.  _ Don’t say anything, you can’t say anything, no matter what don’t say anything…  _

Samuel waited for Alfred to give an answer, and when he remained silent, Samuel shrugged his shoulders and drew close to Alfred’s left shoulder. He laid a heavy hand on Alfred’s shoulder, then draped his other arm around Alfred’s other shoulder and neck. The hand that held the spike rested lightly on Alfred’s chest. Alfred’s heart pounded hard and fast, and he swore that Samuel could feel the beating of his heart through his shirt. Samuel brushed a stray strand of hair away from Alfred’s neck, then put his lips lightly against Alfred’s ear. His whisper was little more than a breath. Alfred tried to keep his body from shivering, but to no avail.

“The human body is an amazing thing. I find it utterly fascinating. The brain is what I find most intriguing.” His fingertips grazed Alfred’s temple and slowly traced the side of his head. They wound around the back of his ear and softly touched the base of Alfred’s skull. “The brain can receive pain signals from the spinal cord and the adjoining nerves in a fraction of a second.” Samuel dragged his finger down the back of Alfred’s neck, over the skin of his shoulder, and hooked the tip of his finger under the neck of Alfred’s shirt. He toyed with the hem, then pulled it to the side to expose the soft skin of Alfred’s shoulder and chest. He eyed Alfred’s collarbone, then slid his calloused hand over Alfred’s shoulder. Goosebumps ran up and down Alfred’s arms. 

“Here–” Samuel circled his index finger over the skin and muscle under the collarbone but just beside the shoulder joint, “–lies a bundle of nerves under the muscles of the chest.”

Alfred’s breathing quickened. He knew what was coming, and he had to steel his body for the imminent, but he also had to steel his mind.  _ He doesn’t know what he’s doing, he can’t stop it, it’s not his fault,  _ Alfred repeated to himself over and over in his mind.  _ It’s not his fault, it’s not his fault, it’s not his fault…  _

Samuel’s right hand flew up and drove the spike deep into Alfred’s chest, right where Samuel had pointed out the nerves with the tip of his finger. Alfred’s scream pierced the darkness and shattered the night. His body went rigid, and he strained at his bonds. His mind went numb to everything outside of the fire that licked at the left side of his body. Lightning surged through his arm and chest, along with a pain that was completely foreign to him in its intensity.

Samuel was unphased by Alfred’s suffering. He continued speaking as if nothing had happened, only slightly louder. “When severely damaged,” he said, “the injury can lead to paralysis of the arm.” With a twist of his wrist, the spike wrenched to a new angle inside Alfred’s chest, shredding flesh, fraying nerves, and severing blood vessels. Another scream broke free from Alfred’s lips and ripped through his throat. Blood seeped from the wound and dripped down Alfred’s chest in small bright crimson rivulets. Sweat beaded on his forehead, neck, and hairline until it dripped down his skin and settled in the hollows of his features. His mind was reeling, he couldn’t form anything that even remotely resembled a coherent thought. Pain flooded his brain until there was no possible room for anything else.

When Alfred could manage to suck a breath into his lungs, he dared to open his eyes. His wide-eyed gaze caught Samuel’s, and what he saw shook him.

Samuel was standing at arm’s length away from him, with his eyes wide with both shock and fear. His lips were parted, but he made no attempt to speak. His calloused and bloodied hands shook like leaves, and a single glittering tear slid down from the corner of his eye down his cheek until it dripped off of his chin and onto the stone floor.

As soon as Alfred saw this display of emotion, the next second it was gone, replaced by the stony and cocky exterior that he had grown to know. Samuel’s trademark smirk was back on his face where it belonged, but the tear stain betrayed the truth of the turmoil underneath his skin. 

A deep rumble rolled in the distance and was followed closely by a far off flash of white. More than one storm was brewing in the dark of the night, but the one blowing in over the hills was the very least of Alfred’s concerns. 


	14. Doubt

Minutes stretched into hours that were marked only by the agonizing fire that engulfed every inch of Alfred’s body. His mind was completely numb and emptied. His body, stripped of clothing, was broken and torn to shreds. His head lolled forward so that his chin rested against his chest, and he drifted in and out of consciousness. Blood flowed freely from various cuts on his nose, cheeks, and head, and mingled with the sweat that drenched his body and the open wounds that covered his torso and arms. A deep and jagged gouge that crossed from Alfred’s right hip across his stomach and up to his left collarbone still bled fresh and brightly red. Samuel’s stinging words still hung in the air, despite the fact that they had been said over a half hour ago when he had buried the knife deep into Alfred’s flesh:  _ “I’m going to show you what you’ve done to this nation. You’ve ripped it limb from limb, pitted brother against brother, spilled the blood of countless men where there was no need. The cries of widows and orphans and the screams of the dying will never leave your ears. Look around you. This is what you’ve done, and I’m going to make sure you never forget it.” _ Alfred’s legs lay crumpled under the chair and were wrenched below his knees at sickening angles where they shouldn’t be able to bend. Bone broke through the skin, starkly white against the dark and sluggish red of drying blood and exposed muscle. Fresh and dark bruises mottled Alfred’s swollen face and his ribs. Every breath rattled through split lips and his strained lungs with extreme effort. The rusted metal stake quivered with every breath where it was planted deep in Alfred’s shoulder. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and the other was not far behind. Thick blood dripped slowly but steadily from his slightly parted lips.

He was beaten nearly beyond recognition. 

Samuel sat with his knees pulled to his chest in the far corner of the room. He had dismissed the other two men hours ago, and now he sat and watched Alfred slip in and out of the dark recesses of his mind from the dark of the corner. The cold of the middle of the night burrowed under his clammy skin and worked its way deep into his bones. A cold sweat pricked at the back of his neck and sent chills down his spine.

A noise from the center of the room caught Samuel’s attention. A low groan had escaped Alfred’s lips and his head had rolled weakly to one side. Samuel watched from the corner, veiled in darkness.

Alfred tried to open his eyes, but gave up shortly after his first attempt when his eyelids parted on one eye enough to see that the darkness around him had not changed since he last came to. He listened for any sounds that he could possibly detect through his blood-caked ears, but came up with nothing but dead silence. However, he knew better than to assume that he was alone. Alfred knew that Samuel was there, but he sighed quietly and let his body fall limp again. His breaths became less sharp and shallow and fell into a shaky but steady rhythm. Unconscious again. 

Samuel frowned from where he crouched in the far part of the room. Something was stirring inside of his chest, something strange. Something alien. 

His legs straightened almost on their own. His feet crossed the space between himself and Alfred’s broken body hastily. His jaw was set. He had a job to do, and he had to do it quickly. 

Down he fell to his knees at Alfred’s feet. Blood splattered away from where his knees hit the stone and it soaked up into his pants, lukewarm against his skin. He reached a hand out to touch Alfred’s face to examine it, but wrenched his hand back wide-eyed when he saw the dried blood that clothed his forearms and hands and speckled his arms all the way up to his shoulders. He looked down in horror to realize that his earlier perfectly white shirt was now splotched crimson with blood. Disgusted, he hastily peeled it off of his skin and tried to wipe away as much of the blood that drenched him as he could. The red only smeared over his skin more, so he gave up and pitched the sopping-wet clothing away into the corner. He didn’t even want to imagine what the state of his face must have been. 

Looking at Alfred’s body, Samuel was at a loss. He didn’t even know where to begin. Did he try and stop the bleeding now or did he take Alfred somewhere else to do a more comprehensive treatment? Did he set the broken bones now? Did he remove the stake here while Alfred was still unconscious? How much blood had he even lost? The questions made him dizzy, and he knew the definite answers to none of them, so he decided to follow what his gut told him. 

_ Shut down your mind. Just do what you need to do. Don’t think, just do. _

Samuel hardened his expression into a thoughtful glare. His hands flew on their own accord. He was a machine. 

There was a towel on the table by the wall. Samuel snatched it away and set it to the side well away from the pool of blood. 

Next, he dug the key for the shackles that bound all four of Alfred’s limbs out of his pocket. In seconds, the spiked and rusty metal was flung away from Alfred’s right ankle, then the left, then he moved his attention to Alfred’s mangled wrists. Samuel didn’t realize that the twisted metal that bound Alfred’s arms was what was holding his body upright until Alfred’s first wrist was freed and after Alfred’s body slumped forward unhindered toward the stone floor. Samuel’s arm flew forward and caught Alfred around the shoulders before he had time to hit the ground, and Samuel drew him back so that his back rested against the chair with a nervous sigh. Satisfied that Alfred was still unconscious, Samuel finished unlocking Alfred’s final bonds and tossed them aside. The clatter of the metal against the wet stone gave a certain finality to the whole situation that urged Samuel to hurry. 

He grabbed ahold of the towel by his side and every so gently draped it around Alfred’s body to cover as much bare and chill bump-covered skin as he could. It wasn’t much, but it would work well enough for the time being. 

Now lay the final obstacle, yet it would also prove to be the most difficult. Samuel would carry Alfred’s dead weight until he found a place isolated enough to care for him without the danger of him being discovered that still had a roof over it. He knew that this would be difficult, but not entirely impossible. He didn’t care if he had to carry Alfred for ten miles. If he needed to, he would carry him for ten more without a second thought, and then another ten after that. He just had to decide on how. He couldn’t throw him over his shoulders for his wounds, and he couldn’t carry him on his back for the same reason, which left only one other option. 

Samuel knelt down beside the chair, carefully slid his left arm under Alfred’s shoulders and wrapped his hand around his ribs for grip, and positioned Alfred’s head so that it rested easily on his bare chest. His right arm caught Alfred’s legs behind the knee, and with a quiet grunt, he straightened up and swept Alfred into his arms. Samuel took a moment to steady himself and adjust Alfred’s body in his arms so that it was easier to carry before he realized just how incredibly light Alfred’s frame was. Samuel looked down with a furrowed brow and studied Alfred’s body for a moment. 

For the first time, Samuel noticed the state of Alfred’s body. His muscle mass had declined rather significantly since Samuel had last seen him. He had lost enough weight that Samuel could start to see his ribs under his purple and red blotched skin. His cheeks had become a little more hollowed, his bone structure a little more pronounced. Alfred was weak, tired, worn ragged, exhausted. The war had only been waging for just around a year and a half, but aside from the damage that had been done at Samuel’s hand, it already looked as if Alfred had been dragged through the mud. In the faint gray light of the early hours of the morning, Alfred could have been a thousand years old. Samuel thought that though his body may not have reflected it, he felt very much the same way. 

Samuel huffed, then strode across the dark room. His heavy footfalls on the stone masked the  _ drip drip drip _ of blood from Alfred’s bare feet and from his fingertips. His steady breaths were light and warm against Samuel’s chest. The metallic scent of blood drifted up into Samuel’s nose, which he met with a frown. His own heart pounded loudly against his ribs and he tried to not think of the warm and sticky liquid that was coating his arms and chest anew. 

He knew exactly the place that he could take Alfred where he would be safe, at least for the time being. It was a hard way, a long way, but not too hard or too long for Samuel to deny him. It was far enough away from other Confederate soldiers to be safe but not too far away from civilization to count as truly being in the middle of nowhere, so it would be perfect. 

Samuel inched the door open with his booted toe and saw no one in every direction that he peered. The dark halls were empty. He only paused for a half of a second to wonder what exactly it was that he was doing. He came up empty. He didn’t have a reason, he just was going to do it, and no one was going to stop him. 

-x-x-x-

The dark of the night pressed in heavily from every side. The moon was hidden so no light could pierce through the thick clouds and trees to the forest floor below. 

Samuel didn’t need the moonlight to know where he was heading, but he could have done without the hidden tree roots and stones that caused him to stumble every other step. Alfred’s dead weight, for the first ten minutes, was relatively easy to carry, but once Samuel had been stumbling through the dark for nearly forty-five minutes, fatigue had set into his biceps, chest, and shoulder muscles. His arms shook with the strain of Alfred’s body weight, but he kept pressing forward. His breathing became haggard and labored. His legs felt as if they were made of lead. Sweat dripped into his eyes. The string that he used to tie up his small ponytail was long gone, his hair was mussed by the tree branches that scratched at his face, and his pale gold hair stuck to his sweaty face and neck. A grimace was plastered across his face, his jaw set and his teeth bared. 

_ It shouldn’t be too much further– _

Samuel’s thought was dashed as his right boot caught on a hidden stump, hurtling his body forward into the dark. His right arm shot forward to catch himself and his left clutched Alfred’s body against his own as his body hit the ground hard. Alfred cried out weakly from underneath Samuel’s weight, still half unconscious. Samuel cursed between clenched teeth and shook his hair out of his eyes, then pushed himself up onto his knees. Mud and dead leaves were streaked across his arms, pants, and stomach, the same was smeared up and down Alfred’s back and sides. Samuel took a second to draw a deep breath into his burning lungs, then scooped Alfred’s legs up into the crook of his arm. He pushed himself to stand, then he pulled Alfred’s whimpering body close. His body, a roaring furnace, made Alfred’s seem just a little less cold and clammy. 

“Come on, we’re almost there,” Samuel whispered hoarsely. “Just hang on, just hang on.”

He said it as much to Alfred’s half conscious form as to himself. 

A thought sprang up in the back of his mind. 

_ What on earth are you doing? _

He still had no idea. 

_ What  _ are  _ you doing, Sammy?  _ he asked himself.

He plodded on through the dead leaves and mud. The night sang its sweet song in Samuel’s ear.

_ You haven’t got a freaking clue, do you? _

A tree root jutted out into his path. He made sure to avoid it this time. 

-x-x-x-

Samuel nearly gasped out of relief when he reached a break in the trees and laid eyes on his long-sought destination.

_ There it is.  _

_ It  _ was a wooden one-room shack with a broken brick chimney and creeping ivy that cloaked an entire wall. The one window in the middle of one of the walls was painting with dirt so thick it was nearly opaque, and a crack ran in a jagged pattern from the bottom corner all the way to the top. The door stood slightly ajar on rusted hinges.

The place obviously hadn’t been touched in months, and Samuel had never been so happy to see a place so dilapidated and abandoned. 

_ It’s perfect. _

The final fifty feet to their safe haven weighed Samuel’s feet down the most. The earth seemed to swallow his boots into the mud as if it were fighting his every move and wanted to draw him down into the depths of Hell itself. He kept his eyes on the shack that was christened in the silver light of the very early morning, just as the sun begins to rise to begin a new day. Every step brought his exhausted body that much closer to the shack and that much closer to the completion of the mission that he set out on hours ago. 

His entire body shook as he poured his last reserves of energy into the final stretch. He was so close… 

A strangled gasp sounded from the helpless man that lay in his arms, and fingernails dug into the skin of his back. Startled, Samuel halted in the middle of the small clearing and stared down wide-eyed at Alfred. Alfred’s bloodshot eyes were opened as much as the swelling of his face would allow, and his pupils were constricted to the size of pinpoints. He stared upward at the starless sky and gulped air like a fish out of water. His body shook like an autumn leaf being tossed to and fro by the wind. Samuel sighed and pulled him closer to himself. He knew Alfred was completely out of it and going into shock. His body was growing colder by the second. He wasn’t in his right mind, no, far from it. If Alfred knew what was going on, Samuel would have been genuinely shocked. Alfred muttered incoherent things from his quivering and bloody lips, the random, off-the-wall thoughts of a failing mind that Samuel couldn’t hope to try and follow. He settled for closing the last few feet between himself and the shack as quickly as his body would allow. 

Once he reached the door of the shack, he kicked it open with his foot. The door swung open with an ear piercing shriek and allowed Samuel to get his first good look at the inside of the shack.

The shack was one room, maybe ten feet by ten feet, with a floor of dirt, covered with dead leaves that were blown in through the open door by the wind. The roof, upon a cursory inspection, seemed solid enough, but Samuel hoped that there would be no rain to leak through the haphazard shingles above his head. The shack was completely gutted. It had been looted long before by passing soldiers, most likely. The only things inside were dirt, leaves, and cool early morning air. 

Samuel took all of this in as soon as he set foot inside. He stumbled to the middle of the room, hit his knees, and laid Alfred down as gently as he could manage on a bed of dirt and leaves. He himself crumbled to the ground beside of Alfred’s shivering body, completely spent. His chest heaved and glistened with sweat. 

He had done it. 

_ He had actually done it. _

Three and a half miles of tripping through the forest in the dark while carrying 120 pounds of dead weight. His own steadily weakening 140 pound frame had protested nearly the entire way. Now that he had finally made it to this one-room shack, the one place that he knew where Alfred would be safe, he had to finish what he started. 

Just… Once he managed to catch his breath.

The cool early morning air drifted into the shack through the open door, chilling the sweat that drenched Samuel and raising goosebumps on his arms and legs. 

He turned his head so that he could look squarely at Alfred lying beside him. Alfred was staring up at the roof. His body shook like a leaf. Sweat was already dampening the dirt around where he lay. The blanket that Samuel had wrapped around him had fallen away, so he reached over and draped it gently over his shivering and bloody body. It didn’t help to calm his shaking, but Samuel felt that it was better than nothing. 

Alfred’s bloodied and broken body was pitiful to look at, and Samuel couldn’t stand it any longer. He pushed himself up with shaky arms to his knees and leaned over Alfred. Alfred’s eyes were glazed over, staring ahead at nothing, and his teeth chattered harshly. Samuel sighed and pushed a lock of hair away from Alfred’s clammy forehead and let his hand linger on his bloody cheek.  _ Absolutely pitiful,  _ he thought. His gaze then drifted down to Alfred’s gore-covered chest and over to the rusty spike that was still embedded deeply into the flesh of his shoulder. He clenched his jaw and positioned his body over Alfred’s: One arm pressed down firmly across his chest, one knee pinned his hips to the ground. He put his entire body weight onto Alfred, which warranted a strangled cry from the man underneath him. Samuel didn’t pay it any mind. He wrapped his fingers around the bulk of the stake and tightened his grip. 

He let himself glance back up at Alfred’s face. His expression was one of confusion and of agony. 

“Sorry, buddy,” Samuel whispered. A split second later, he ripped the spike from Alfred’s flesh with as much force as he could muster. 

The agonizing scream that shattered the silence of the gray morning cut into Samuel’s heart like a knife. 

_ I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…  _

Hot tears sprung from the corners of Alfred’s swollen eyes and rolled down the sides of his face into his filthy hair. He struggled under Samuel’s weight with a renewed strength that shocked Samuel into throwing his entire body on top of Alfred to keep him from hurting himself even more. He held Alfred’s arms against his chest and yelled into Alfred’s face only inches away.

“Alfred! Stop, you’re making it worse!”

Alfred’s eyes shot open and bore into Samuel with a complete and utter rage. His face contorted into an almost inhuman shape that was as far from the Alfred that Samuel knew as the East is from the West. Spittle flew from his lips with every hateful syllable. 

“Go to hell, you miserable piece o–!”

Samuel cried out in anguish and slammed his forehead into Alfred’s, effectively cutting his words out of his mouth. His head lolled to one side and his body went limp under Samuel. He was out cold, and would be for a long time. 

Samuel gave himself a moment to take a breath before he pushed himself up and onto his feet. Seeing Alfred explode like that sent shivers down his spine. That wasn’t the real Alfred, far from it. 

_ But,  _ Samuel thought,  _ I deserved that.  _

He absentmindedly rubbed his forehead with his palm and shook his head. His mind was numb, yet fiery doubt licked at the fringes of his consciousness. Doubt about himself as a man, his control over himself, his own sanity. 

“Dear God in heaven, what have I done?”


	15. History Has Its Eyes On You

“When did he get here,” Lincoln asked one of his most trusted assistants as he pushed his way down the hall of the White House, shrugging on a jacket over his half-buttoned shirt and rubbing sleep out of his eyes. 

“Only about an hour ago, sir,” the assistant replied.

“Why did no one wake me earlier?”

“Sir, we…” The assistant faltered as his face clouded when a memory came to the forefront of his mind.

“You what?”

“To be completely honest… We weren’t entirely sure that it was him until a short time ago.”

Lincoln scoffed at the young man that half walked, half sprinted down the hall along next to him. “How could you not be sure it was him?”

The assistant stopped beside the door at the very end of the hallway. “Sir, I think you can see for yourself.”

Lincoln’s face darkened, but he nodded to his assistant and turned the doorknob, then pushed the door open. 

He stopped short in the middle of the doorway and stared into the room, his jaw slack. Slowly he raised a hand to his face, half in shock and half to mask the smell. He allowed himself three seconds to take the scene in front of him in before he stepped into the room.

The room was swarming with doctors, nurses, and the like, all covered in blood or tossing bloody bandages and sheets into the corner. Either no one paid any attention to the President, or they simply didn’t notice him at all.

At the far end of the room was a simple bed surrounded by people and carts covered in silver instruments and clean bandages. In that bed at the center of the sea of chaos lay Alfred, and he looked like death warmed over. He was stripped down to nothing with only a sheet over his hips. He was bruised and swollen to the point that he was nearly unrecognizable. Sweat and blood from reopened wounds mixed together and soaked through the sheets and into the mattress. The smell of infection was thick in the air, and it was nearly enough to make Lincoln gag. Someone called for two splints to be brought up, and that was when Lincoln noticed the disgusting state of Alfred’s legs. Someone threw two splints made of sticks which were more-or-less straight into the corner along with the bloody rags. Once the splints were removed, Alfred’s legs could be fully seen. The flesh where his bones broke through was shredded and looked nearly dead. Lincoln didn’t have to have a medical degree to tell that the smell was coming mostly, if not entirely, from Alfred’s legs. 

Someone finally noticed that Lincoln was in the room and took the head doctor to talk with him. The two men left the room and stood out in the hall. 

Lincoln leaned against the wall and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You really have your work cut out for you.”

The doctor, a short and plump man of about sixty, nodded his head in agreement. “Alfred is in a bind, but he’s not nearly as bad as he could, or really should, be. When we got ahold of him tonight, he had standard battlefield dressings on his wounds from the doctors in the camp that treated him first. What really surprised me was that they weren’t the first people to get to him.”

Lincoln looked up and frowned. “They weren’t?”

“No,” the doctor replied, “Alfred just showed up at the camp a week ago out of the blue two days after he had been discovered missing with both his wounds and shoddy dressings and splints. I’m convinced that those dressings and whoever cleaned his wounds are what saved his life.”

Lincoln thought for a moment, perplexed. “Who could–”

“Who could have gotten ahold of him? Your guess is as good as mine. Alfred will have to tell you who helped him out, and what all happened while he went missing.”

“So you’re saying that he’ll be alright?”

“Alfred is strong,” the doctor said. “With a watchful eye and regular wound care, his body should be fine. However,” he added, “something bad happened out there. You might do well to keep an eye on him for a while until everything surrounding this comes out into the open.”

-x-x-x-

“He’s lost his mind,” Georgia mused. “I mean, how could he just do that?”

The Confederate states all looked at each other, at a loss as for what Samuel had done. No one had any answers as for why, or what to do with him now. 

“That idiot, he deserves nothing less than a flogging, I say,” Texas yelled as he pounded his fist on the table. The force of his fist shook the wine decanter near his hand, and he quickly steadied it before the red wine spilled.

“Now let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” North Carolina said sweetly. She placed a hand on Texas’ arm and drew him back into his chair. Texas grumbled and leaned back in his chair. If looks could kill, everyone around the table would have dropped dead from his gaze. 

“She’s right,” Virginia nodded in North Carolina’s direction. North Carolina smiled back at her sister warmly and let Virginia continue. “We have to handle this with a certain measure of prudence. If we act too rashly then we may make a grievous error.”

“But how can you explain such an obvious act of treason?” Texas boomed. “He’s a no-good piece of crap that needs to be put in his place. Too much free thought, I say. We need to show him what happens when he crosses us so openly. Put your foot down hard enough that he won’t soon forget it, and you don’t have a problem in the future. That’s what you do with a dog. At this point, he’s no different.”

“Say that one more time!” Marion screeched from the other end of the table. Her knuckles were wrapped around the edge of the table, white as paper.

“I said,” Texas spat, “Samuel is nothing more than a dog. Kick him once, and he won’t bite the hand that feeds him again. In the very least, he’ll think twice before he does.”

“He’s not one of your cattle dogs, Texas! He’s a…" Marion paused before she said the word that weighed so heavily on her mind. "He’s a person!”

“Person, my foot! He’s the personification of our nation, and it’s about time that he acted like it!”

The room went silent. Everyone knew Texas was right. Samuel had to be punished. The question was how.

Ideas were thrown around about different means of teaching Samuel a lesson, but no one could agree on anything other than the fact that the punishment had to be severe enough to burn into Samuel’s memory that he had no business swapping sides and harboring sentiments for the Union. Also, Samuel had to be pulled from the battlefield immediately, possibly permanently.

The states stayed up at the table bickering and shouting and mulling over their predicament until the sun broke the horizon the following morning. Weary and with dark circles under all of their eyes, they had finally reached a consensus. No one liked it in the least, except for Texas, but they all had to agree that it would speak their message loudly and clearly to Samuel.

Marion held her tears in until she was alone in the back washroom. She was thoroughly disgusted with herself.

-x-x-x-

A week later, Samuel’s boots could be heard stomping up the steps of the personification of Virginia’s plantation house outside of Richmond. He threw the front door open and slung his bag of gear down off of his shoulder and onto the floor inside. Through the hall to his left, he could see all of his states standing in the parlor. None of them were smiling, and the grin on Samuel’s own face died when he laid eyes on them. He cleared his throat awkwardly before he spoke.

“Well I’m here now. What...” He swallowed a nervous knot that suddenly started to choke him. “What did you call me back for?” He knew exactly why they had recalled him, but he figured he might as well stall for time if he could.

Everyone in the parlor remained silent. Many of the female states averted their eyes and found a newfound interest in the rug or in the sweating tea glasses in their hands. Texas sauntered forward, a smirk pulling at one side of his lips. A thin wooden toothpick jutted out from between his teeth. Samuel met his gaze with a steely look.

“We heard about the stunt you pulled with Alfred Jones.” Texas' voice was disgustingly smooth, and the toothpick danced up and down with each syllable. “Needless to say, we were less than pleased when we heard.”

Samuel didn't respond. He simply clenched his jaw. 

"You do understand Samuel, that we can't have you kissing the enemies wounds and stealing from your own men for a Yankee's benefit. To be completely honest, we were quite shocked to hear this kind of nonsense coming from you." His smirk leveled into a straight and hard lip. "We will not stand for it."

Footsteps came from behind Samuel's back, but before he could turn to face who was behind him, a heavy boot kicked him behind the right knee and sent him to the floor with a grunt. Two sets of arms jerked his own sharply behind his back, and a hand shoved his head down so he stared down at the floor. He tried to fight the men who held him fast, but stopped when a pair of shiny black dress shoes stepped into his view. 

Texas. 

He reached down and jerked Samuel's head up by the hair so their faces were mere inches away. Texas' lip was curled into a sneer around his toothpick, and his words reeked of booze. 

"Act like an insubordinate slave, and we'll treat you like one."

Samuel's sea foam-green eyes met Texas' chocolate ones, and he held his gaze for one, two, three seconds, before he spit in his face. 

Texas responded with a powerful punch in the jaw that was strong enough to make Samuel see stars. He could already feel a bruise hurriedly forming under his skin. His eyes watered from the force of the fist, and his head lolled against his chest as he groaned. 

"Get him outside," Texas growled. 

The arms behind him pushed Samuel to his feet and half dragged him through the parlor and outside. In the back of his mind he could hear strangled women's voices and feet following him, but it didn't register in his brain. He vaguely thought that someone was crying, but it seemed more as if the sound were drifting aimlessly along on the wind rather than rattling in his ears. 

As his boots shuffled over the sunburnt grass, he was only aware of a handful of things. Firstly, the sun's warmth stretched only to the tops of the trees and couldn't make its way down to kiss his freckled cheeks. Secondly, a buzzard black as death sat hunched in the oak tree over his right shoulder, eyeing his journey across the open grass. Thirdly, he was undeniably headed straight for the most dreaded and hated place on the entire plantation. 

The whipping post. 

They meant to flog him. 

Samuel hardened his face and clenched his fists. Never in a thousand years would he have imagined that his own states would do such a thing to him, and yet here he was, staring down the bloodstained wooden post and metal shackles before him. There in front of him gathered his states. Marion stood directly in front of his line of sight. 

That was when he made up his mind to not let them win. 

Just short of the post, Samuel shrugged off the arms gripping him. He stared ahead and locked his cold eyes with Marion's teary ones as he whipped his shirt off over his head, exposing his tan and scar-riddled skin. He flung the shirt to the side and onto the dirt. He stepped forward and defiantly shoved his arms forward for someone he didn't see to shackle his wrists to the cruel post. His muscular frame stood erect as a young sapling while his frozen glare bore into Marion, and he waited. 

He heard Texas shrug off his jacket, roll up his sleeves, and grasp the leather whip, which he arrogantly cracked against the dirt at Samuel's feet. Marion and her sister, North Carolina, to whom Marion clutched tightly, jumped severely and cried out. Samuel didn't move a muscle. 

"This is for your treachery…” Texas spat, “And for your downright stupidity."

Samuel took a breath and braced himself for the sting of the whip. Marion couldn’t tear her eyes away from his.

The blows came slowly, deliberately. With every tear of flesh and drip of blood, Marion’s sorrow and disgust grew inside of her. 

_ What have we become,  _ she thought.  _ Are we nothing more than savages? _

Samuel’s face remained like granite. His lip curled in the slightest grimace with each crack of the whip against his back. His fingers were balled up so tight into fists that his skin was white. By the tenth crack, his body surged forward and collided with the post. He fought with everything he had inside of him to remain standing, but his legs gave out under his weight at the seventeenth blow. His knees buckled and slammed into the dirt, but his eyes never left Marion’s for an instant. 

When he fell, Marion caught a glimpse of a single silver tear that slithered down his cheek, followed by another. His face was solid, but his eyes told a different story, one of betrayal and of pain. 

She refused to watch any more of the torture. She turned and strode into the house, chased by the stomach-churning sounds of the pain that she had agreed to.

Before she shut the door of the house behind her, she heard Samuel’s lonely and pain-stricken cry ring out through the air.

-x-x-x-

Samuel received thirty-nine lashes that day. When he was peeled off of the post, nearly unconscious, he wore a hauntingly empty smile on his face.

He knew that he had done the right thing, and these states would have to come down much harder on him if they wanted to convince him otherwise.

-x-x-x-

One month later, Alfred sat opposite Lincoln in the Oval Office. They had been talking for the past hour about any effects that Lincoln’s preliminary Emancipation Proclamation had had on the Confederacy as of yet. There was still a month and a half left until the Proclamation would go into effect if the South didn’t cease their rebellion by the start of the new year. All signs read that the South had heard Lincoln’s warning and done nothing more than laugh. Conversation had slowed once lunch was brought in for the President and Alfred snatched a sandwich and a glass of wine from the platter for himself. Ever since his time with Samuel, he had steered clear of whiskey. 

Lincoln had only talked to Alfred about what had happened once, when he first came back to the White House and was strong enough to talk, and after that the subject had been dropped. For that, Alfred was grateful, and now that he was nearly completely healed and only showed a rather heavy limp when he walked, he was ready to put the incident behind him and move on. Lincoln only had one thing to address before he would allow it to be let go however.

“Alfred,” Lincoln said, “Have you thought about what happened after you were left at the camp in Maryland?”

Alfred eyed his wine uneasily.  _ Really, Lincoln? Really? I thought that this was dropped.  _ “No,” he lied, “not really.”

Lincoln continued, having seen straight through Alfred’s sham. He half thought that he should drop the conversation, but went on with it anyway. “Samuel was recalled to Richmond immediately when the States found out about what he did for you.”

Alfred shrugged and swirled his wine in its crystal glass, suddenly extremely interested in its color.  _ Just shut up already,  _ he thought, but he replied with a simple, “So?”

“So,” Lincoln added slowly, “They’ve confined him to Richmond and tied his hands. He’s completely cut off from the rest of the world. The only human contact he has is with his states and Jefferson Davis. Intelligence indicates that they have no plans to give him any slack.”

Alfred stiffened in his chair. He threw the wine back and swallowed it in one gulp, cleared his throat, and said, “Why should I care about that miserable piece of crap?”

“Because ‘that miserable piece of crap’ refuses to apologize for letting you go.”

There was a pregnant pause between the two men. Alfred chewed on his lip, irritated. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that he stuck his neck out for you.” Lincoln sat back in his chair and picked up a pen and a stack of papers. “What exactly you do with that information, my friend, is up to you.”

Alfred absentmindedly rubbed at his chest over his thick and jagged pink scar. Flashes of what happened on that dark night flooded his mind. Darkness and blood muddled with pain, but a freckled face was there the whole time. It wore a concerned and guilt-ridden expression, something that looked foreign considering who the face belonged to. 

Alfred still didn’t know what to think, but he did know that he needed to mull over these things alone. He picked up the cane that he had been using since he was able to get on his feet and pushed himself up to take his leave from the President. 

Just before he left, he grabbed the glass of wine that was originally for Lincoln. The President let him have it. He figured Alfred needed it more than he did anyway.


	16. Hey Brother

Samuel paced from one end of the house to the other. His bare feet slapped against the cold wood, and it was the only sound throughout the whole house. For the first time since his return from the battlefield, he had the entire house to himself. Despite the chill in the air, he wore no shirt, nor had he been able to put one on comfortably since his flogging. His bandages needed changing yet again. He had been fighting to keep infection out for quite a while, but he could never manage to keep his wounds on a steady course toward healing. Healing was slow and agonizing in its coming, in part because of how the war was going, but also because of his own mind. 

He spoke to none of the states anymore. He kept to himself and avoided all contact with anyone if he could help it, but he did hang around some choice plantation slaves. Marion made attempts at polite conversation at least once a day. However, all that she could drag out of him was a sad look, like a kicked puppy, that is if she could get anything out of him at all. Most of the time, he sat in the study either reading or writing letters that never were sent. If he wasn’t there, he was out sitting and talking with some of the slaves as they worked outside. 

The states all could clearly see Samuel’s spiral down the drain, and they all tried to get him out of his “funk” in their own ways. 

Alabama offered to take him hunting on his own land, which he never did for anyone. Samuel declined in favor of helping himself to the liquor cabinet. 

Virginia dragged him into town to go shopping. He held her bags like the gentleman that he was and quietly nodded to which fabric he thought would look better as a new dress. He never said a word during that entire outing.

Texas even brought back prostitutes from town for him on multiple occasions, as Samuel’s sexual appetite was somewhat a thing of local legend. Every time the girls showed up at the door however, Samuel gently declined their services, paid them for their trouble, and had a slave take them back to town. He even offered them food if they were hungry.

His new demeanor was an epiphany to everyone, but most notably to Texas. He simply could not fathom how Samuel could turn down a willing girl.

“The kid will screw anything with legs!” Samuel heard Texas whisper-yell down the hall one day to Arkansas, who had become like Texas’ shadow over the past few months. “I can’t tell you how many times he’s been around the block with every skirt within fifty miles, and he gets disciplined once and all of a sudden he’s celebant? Who does he think he’s kidding? And I pay good money for those whores, too. But hey, his loss and my gain, am I right? But seriously, what’s stuck in his craw?”

Samuel had wanted to say a lot of choice things to Texas in that moment, but truth be told, he had simply lost the motivation to do much of anything. He was cut off from the world, the war, his guys in the field. 

He spent hours trying to figure out how had he fallen from being in the heat of battle to spending all of his time in a darkened study, poring over dusty books whose authors were long since dead and gone.

Where had his passion gone? What had happened to the fire in his heart that burned unceasingly?

How had he sunk to pacing the length of Virginia’s cold and empty plantation house, with a barely smoldering and forgotten cigarette in one hand and a half-drunk glass of bourbon in the other?

He was just going to reflect on the fact that it took exactly fifty-three steps to get from one end of the house to the other when a young slave stepped into the hallway. She saw him down the hall in the darkened corner, smiled at him, and called out his name. “Sammy!”

Samuel’s head jerked up at the sound. The slave girl had startled him, but when he paired the light and airy voice with the girl’s face, he smiled. It was a real smile, one that was reserved only for the slaves who worked the plantation and house. He was really the only one who treated them fairly and kindly, and it was obvious when he spent time with them that he saw them all as his equals. As the personification of the Confederacy, this was highly frowned upon by the states, and his time with the plantation slaves had been limited to only necessary run-ins. However, being alone in the house, this was a rare opportunity to spend some time with one of his favorite little girls who took care of the house. 

“Annabel! how wonderful to see you,” he said, his silky smooth voice reflecting how truly glad he was to see her. Now that he was standing in front of her, suddenly he became extremely conscious of his bare chest. “Oh my goodness–!” As hastily as his painful body could, he set down his glass on the floor by his feet, snatched up a sheet from a basket of clean laundry that was set against the wall, and wrapped himself up in it in a makeshift shawl. He could feel his face heat up and turn red, which made both him and the little girl in front of him giggle. Samuel’s sense of modesty only ever made an appearance when he was around someone he truly respected, which narrowed down the pool of applicable people to the house slaves. When they had both quelled their laughter, Samuel gingerly knelt on the floor in front of Annabel, who had drawn close. 

“So to what may I attribute this wonderful opportunity to see you?”

“I’ve got a letter for you, sir,” she said with a bashful smile. She held out a small envelope with Samuel’s name sloppily written on it in ink. 

“You know better than to call me sir–” Samuel paused in the middle of his thought and furrowed his brow. “Hold on,” he said, “no one else has seen this yet, have they?”

Annabel shook her head and grinned, her pearly white teeth stunning and stark contrast to her ebony skin. Something about that smile dug up a memory from deep inside Samuel’s brain. A memory of a slave named Eli…  

Samuel quickly refocused back to the situation at hand. He was surprised. Not by the fact that he had a letter, but the fact that this letter had come before anyone else had a chance to read it ahead of him. The states had taken to absconding with his mail and reading it first to make sure there was nothing strange in it that could give Samuel any rebellious ideas.

Annabel knew all about how the states were trying to keep Samuel under their thumbs, as she was his go-to girl when he had the urge to subtly buck the system. 

“Alrighty then, let’s see who this is from.” Samuel smiled as he took the envelope from Annabel’s tiny hand. She laced her fingers in his, and he gave her hand a cheerful squeeze. As he ripped open the envelope, he stuck his cigarette between his teeth despite the fact that it was nearly out. 

The paper that was stuffed in the envelope was creased in every direction, smudged with ink, and it even had strange stains on a couple of the corners.  _ It looks as if this letter has been to Hell and back,  _ Samuel thought,  _ but who am I to judge, I probably don’t look much better either.  _

He withdrew the paper, unfolded it, and started to read. The further into the letter he got, the more his smile faded into a concentrated and concerned look. By the end of the letter, he had lost all semblance of happiness. He quickly folded the letter up and stuffed it into his pants pocket. He took ahold of both of Annabel’s hands and looked her in the eyes to keep her attention.

“Annabel, I’m going to need you to do me a huge favor.”

The girl’s expression sobered and she nodded her head.

“Would you put some food together for me? It seems I need to go away for a bit.”

Annabel frowned. “Wait, where? For how long?”

“Only a few days, not to worry. I’ll be back before you know it, I promise.”

After a few seconds of terse silence, “Okay…” was her half-hearted reply.

“You mustn't tell a soul that I’ve left. This is extremely important. Please. This isn’t like the other times we’ve done silly little things to mess with the others. I could get in a lot of trouble if I got caught.”

Annabel knew the consequences for the both of them if this plan of Samuel leaving were to make it back around to the states, and she was rightfully scared. The very last thing that Samuel wanted was to get her into trouble, but he knew that he physically needed the help. 

“Just… Can you trust me? The less you know, the safer we both are.”

It was obvious that Annabel wasn’t on board with all of these secrets, but she agreed nonetheless. 

“Sammy,” the little girl said, her normally chipper voice small and shaky.

“What is it, my girl?”

Annabel took a breath before saying, “Whatever it is you have to do, be safe. I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

Samuel gave her a small and encouraging smile. “I’ll be alright. Promise.” He kissed her on the cheek and thanked her before she quickly turned and headed to the pantry. 

_ I had better get going before someone catches me and locks me up again,  _ he thought.  _ I’ve got someone waiting on me in Washington, and this is a meeting that I cannot afford to miss. _

He slowly pushed himself back to his feet, putting his hand out against the wall for support and picking up his glass of liquid courage along the way. 

_ Who knows, the outcome of the war itself may very well depend on if I make it in time. _

Samuel threw the rest of the bourbon back in one gulp and strode down the hall. For the first time since the incident with Alfred, something was stirring inside of him. 

Something along the lines of determination.

-x-x-x-

The second Texas opened the door of the plantation house, he knew something was off. The house was always quiet these days, but this… This was entirely too quiet. No, quiet wasn’t the right word. The house was silent as a grave. It was the ugly kind of silence, the kind that fell heavy over the ears and settled uncomfortably over everything within arms reach. 

He could practically smell that something was very wrong. 

“Samuel!”

His voice boomed through the halls. It bounced off the mirrors, careened up the stairs, tripped around every piece of furniture in the house and then finally out the back door. 

He heard no response. There was no one to give one. The house was deserted.

He sighed and shifted his feet. The floor of the foyer creaked under his weight. The sound was louder than it had any right to be. 

After a minute or so, a song made its way to Texas’ ears. A song sung by empty rooms and lonely walls, accompanied by the crisp winter air. Its verse was mournful, the chorus wispy. 

This song, a song so quiet, screamed to Texas that Samuel had fled. 

“It was only a matter of time,” Texas said to himself under his breath, “before you flew the coop.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Don’t worry kid, when I find you, I’ll clip those wings of yours.”

He turned and walked back out the front door of the house. He didn’t bother to close the door. Across the porch he went, down the steps, into the brown grass that crunched under his foot. 

He fished his flask out from his pocket, unscrewed the cap, lifted it to his lips.

“I’ll crush that rebellious spirit under my heel until there’s nothing left but dust to be tossed by the wind.”

He sealed his words with a swig of burning amber.

The house took the words into itself and harbored them within its walls. 

This was no empty threat.

This was a promise, and Texas had yet to leave a promise unfulfilled.

-x-x-x-

Alfred sat at the bar, anxiously sipping his third beer of the evening. He had been waiting, sitting patiently at the same stool, for a couple of hours now. It was getting late, and he really needed to get back home soon. This was the fourth night he had come to the bar and hung around from when they opened their doors until closing time. He was biding his time, waiting. A voice wondered in the back of his mind if all of his waiting was in vain, but he quickly shoved the notion aside. 

_ He is going to come.  _

_ He will be here.  _

_ It’s only a matter of time. _

_ A matter of time and patience, and I have more than enough time to spare. _

Alfred sipped from his mug again. Waiting had never been Alfred’s strongsuit. He was about the most impatient man he knew, but he didn’t exactly have much of a choice right now. 

He absentmindedly drew a smiley face in the water on the side of his sweating glass. The lopsided mouth made the face look almost depraved. Alfred smiled back half-heartedly at his creation before sighing and wiping it away with his thumb before taking a long drink. 

A moment later, Alfred sensed someone standing over his shoulder. He slowly lowered his mug to the bar, but he didn’t look to see who it was that stood behind him. He kept his gaze even with the wall of liquor bottles shelved across from him. 

The person behind him stepped forward and eased themselves into the barstool next to Alfred and called the bartender over. 

“What can I get for you?” the bartender asked.

A tired, rough, but undeniably suave Southern drawl replied, “You got any Old Crow?”

The bartender nodded and poured his new customer a glass of the whiskey. He slid it forward to the man beside Alfred. 

“Thanks,” the man replied as he lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip. He set the glass back down on the bar and rubbed his finger along the rim. 

For a long time, neither him nor Alfred said anything to each other. Both of them were trying to ignore the massive elephant in the room that sat directly between them. The two men sipped their drinks and drilled the back wall with their stares. 

Alfred tried not to wrinkle his nose at the man to his left. He smelled as if he hadn’t showered in at least a week, if not longer, but there was something else there. It took a moment for Alfred to place it, but once he did, he couldn’t deny that distinctive smell. 

The smell of soiled bandages, with a hint of untamed infection.

“You’re in rough shape, kid,” Alfred finally said. He turned to face the shell of a man beside of him. 

He had never seen Samuel in this bad of shape. His clothes were filthy, his hands and face smeared with dirt, sweat, and what looked very reminiscent of dried blood. His unkempt hair was greasy, tangled, and askew, and it hung loose around his face. What looked like a little over two weeks worth of sandy blond beard peppered his jaw. His face was drawn, his normally fiery green eyes were exhausted, and angry red blisters covered his palms. A gun belt holding a revolver in its holster hung lazily against his hip. 

“Yeah,” Samuel sighed. “You could say I’ve seen better days.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more.”

A silence fell between the two once again. Alfred let it sit for a moment before he spoke.

“I’m glad you could come.”

Samuel took a gulp from his glass, grimaced, then nodded. “I’m glad I could too.” He turned to face Alfred. “Something like this is long overdue.”

Alfred gave Samuel a once-over, then let a pained expression come over his face. “You really look awful, can I…” He paused to think about what he was going to ask before he spoke. Something inside of him told him to go ahead and ask.  _ It’s what you should do. _

“Can I maybe… Offer you a place to stay for a few days? Somewhere to get cleaned up, a real meal, some rest?”

Samuel’s eyes softened. He looked like he was trying to smile, but it stopped just short of his lips. He hesitated before he answered. It looked as though he were fighting with himself over what to say. When he did answer, his voice was soft, vulnerable, emotional. Never before had Alfred heard Samuel give off any hint of weakness or of needing anything from anyone.

“Yes. That would be very kind of you.”

Alfred wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing, but he hoped to God that he hadn’t made a wrong decision that would come back to haunt him later. 

-x-x-x-

Alfred paid for their drinks and offered to shoulder Samuel’s pack for him. He denied the help at first, settling instead for dragging the small bag out behind him as they walked out of the bar together, but out of concern Alfred swept the bag out of Samuel’s hands and carried it for him. As they left, Alfred watched how Samuel moved. His movements were jerky and guarded, as if every step and every breath was hurting him. Once they made it outside into the cold and clear night air, Alfred could tell that the smell of infection was most definitely coming from Samuel. He really wanted to ask what on earth had he gotten himself into, but he kept his mouth shut as they walked slowly toward their horses. 

Alfred frowned as he watched Samuel attempt to hide his struggle to climb into the saddle, but neither of them spoke until they had mounted up and set off. What little talk there was between them was of little significance, as it was only to fill the empty and awkwardly quiet air.

Both men were glad that their journey was short, less than a half hour. They were both exhausted and ready to fall into bed, but there were still important things to get done. Namely, getting Samuel acquainted with a bath. That most certainly could not wait until the morning.

That and also getting Samuel into the White House without him being shot. That would be a little bit tricky. Tricky, but not impossible. Alfred had a plan. 

Well, by ‘plan’ he meant something along the lines of ‘flying by the seat of his pants’. To be honest he hadn’t exactly thought this part of his plan out at all.

“Wait here,” he said to Samuel when they drew close to the gates and the guards who stood ready to receive them. “Let me talk to them.”

Samuel nodded and halted his horse while Alfred dismounted and went forward to greet the guards. They recognized him immediately and chatted easily with him for a few minutes. Gradually the conversation turned toward the stranger in the dark, and Alfred eventually came back to Samuel’s horse’s side. 

“They agreed to let you go in if you hand over any weapons you have to me.”

Samuel nodded. “I expected as much.” He slowly reached down and removed the rifle that he had brought along with him that was hung on his saddle in a leather scabbard. Alfred took it and slung it on his own saddle. Samuel hesitated before he slowly unbuckled the gun belt around his waist and untied the leg string. 

“Just be careful with this. It’s my personal one.”

Alfred nodded and took it, admittedly a little uneasy, then looped the belt around the horn of his saddle. “That’s it, right?”

“I think so–hang on, I forgot about my hunting knife.” Samuel stiffly reached down and slipped a long knife and its sheath out from the inside of one of his boots. He tossed it to Alfred, ran a quick inventory of his things over in his head, then said, “Yeah, that’s everything now.”

Alfred nodded, gave the guards a thumb’s up, and mounted his horse again. “Now let’s get inside, I’m about to freeze to death out here.”

-x-x-x-

He was really taking a chance by doing this, but he also couldn’t afford to not do it. If he gave Samuel a different room, he wouldn’t be able to keep as close an eye on him as he would like. If he gave him the small couch in his room, then he would be trying to sleep in the same room as the man that had made his life a living hell for the past two years, but most specifically over the past month or so.

Everything about this felt wrong, so wrong, but he couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling in his gut that maybe the tides between him and Samuel could be shifting. He was here, wasn’t he? That had to count for something right?

Alfred knocked on the door to the washroom that was connected to his room, a stack of clean clothes in one arm for Samuel. He hadn’t brought a change of clothes in his small bag of supplies, so Alfred agreed to let him borrow some of his, as they wore about the same size. 

“Hey, I’ve got those clothes for you. I’m just going to set them on the sink for you if that’s ok.”

“Yeah sure,” came the voice from inside. 

Alfred opened the door and stepped into the washroom, but stopped when he looked up. What he saw nearly made him gasp aloud. 

Samuel stood with his back to the door and in front of the mirror that hung on the wall. His shirt was in a ball on the floor, along with a pile of nasty bandages. His shoulders were hunched forward, his hands rested on the table in front of him. His shaggy blond head stuck up between his shoulders, but it wasn’t held aloft with the same cockiness that Alfred had grown used to. 

Samuel’s entire back, from the base of his neck to the waistband of his pants, was covered in oozing red, half-healed stripes. 

Alfred froze. He didn’t know what to do. His eyes just drank in the scene before him.

Samuel didn’t move. He knew exactly what was happening. He figured it was about time for Alfred to know anyway.

Neither of them spoke for about a half of a minute. Alfred finally cleared his throat, then asked in a quiet voice, “What… What happened?” He knew what it was that had made those wounds, but he hadn’t the faintest idea why.

Samuel waited a moment before he answered. “My states weren’t too keen on the stunt I pulled with you.” He raised his head and locked eyes with Alfred’s reflection, which was hard as granite except for a small silver glint in his eyes. “Helping you and letting you go.”

When they looked into each other’s eyes through that mirror, there was no need for words. Words couldn’t convey the depth of the sadness that each of them were feeling. 

Samuel managed to crack a small smile at Alfred. It was a real smile, genuine and heartfelt, that sang to Alfred that he held not a single ounce of regret in his heart for what he had endured because of his actions. 

Alfred’s heart was being pulled in a hundred different directions. How could this man, whom he had spent an entire two years hating with everything that he had in him, have flipped and transformed into this self-sacrificial stranger?

_ Maybe,  _ Alfred thought,  _ this is the man that has been kept hidden from my sight this whole time. _

It took him a minute, but when Alfred returned the smile, he meant it.

In that one moment, the entire world shifted on its axis. 


	17. Emperor's New Clothes

“You know you’re going to be pretty much restricted to the grounds, but it’s really for your own good. I would hate for someone to recognize you and snatch you up and drag you home,” Alfred said to the man who sat with his back to him on the floor. The blond in front of him leaned forward, his long arms draped over his knees, his shirt on the floor. 

“Yeah, I know,” came his reply. He sounded overtired and worn thin.

“Besides,” Alfred added off-the-cuff as he knelt down behind Samuel. He laid a pile of clean bandages and a bottle of alcohol on the floor next to him, “I don’t think anyone around here really trusts you as far as they can throw you. Considering what happened last time you were here…”

Samuel screwed up his face in mock thought, pretending to pull the old memory out of the back of his mind. “I’m trying to remember what all I did that was so horrible…”

Alfred leaned forward so that his head came around Samuel’s shoulder. “Sammy. You broke one of my guard’s noses, flounced around my party, and then you split right after that. You had security completely lose their minds. I swear, I couldn’t so much as take a whiz without an audience for two months.” Alfred paused to think for a moment, then added, “And then you blew smoke all up in my face. That was rude.” Alfred added a sarcastic huff and gumble for good measure.

Samuel tried to stifle a slight laugh and completely failed, but yelped when Alfred touched on an especially sore spot on his back.

“Sorry about that,” Alfred mumbled, “but you kind of had that one coming. That poor guy’s nose is still insanely lopsided.”

“Well tell him I’m sorry, I wasn’t exactly… You know… All there.” Samuel waved his finger around the side of his head in the universal sign for ‘crazy’.

“Yeah, I know what you’re talking about. Don’t worry about it. And I’m sure Crooked would understand.”

Samuel turned around, his face twisted in confusion.

“You know. The guy whose nose you broke. Everyone calls him Crooked now. Because… You know.” Alfred used one finger to push the end of his nose nearly flush with his cheek.

"You’re not right, you know that?” Samuel sighed as he shook his head and faced forward once again. 

“You’re one to talk,” Alfred shot back. Admittedly, he meant it in a playful way, but it came out with just a touch of accusation tied on the end of it. 

Samuel gently frowned down at the floor. He shrugged his shoulders ever so slightly. His response drifted over his lips on a nearly silent breath. “I guess you’re right.”

Neither one of them said anything for a long time after that. The subject was dropped, but still lingered heavily in the room, demanding to be addressed. It was ignored by both parties.

As the two men sat in silence, dark shadows tugged at the corners of Samuel’s mind. Smoky tendrils wrapped themselves around his thoughts, cold disembodied fingers slid up and down his spine, sinister whispers breathed across his ear. Try as he might, he couldn’t quite shove them all completely away. In his heart of hearts, he doubted that he ever would. 

-x-x-x-

Alfred’s hands tried to be gentle as he cleaned Samuel’s wounds, and Samuel tried to stay as still as he could, but he still grimaced and flinched at every swipe of the cloth in Alfred’s hand. Various “I’m sorry”s were muttered from both parties, by Alfred for hurting Samuel and by Samuel for jumping or swearing. Eventually Alfred was satisfied that Samuel’s wounds were cleaned out enough to start healing right. 

“Alright, you’re done.” Alfred smiled as he stood up and stretched his back. They had been on the floor for quite a while and he was cramping up. 

“Thanks,” Samuel said as Alfred stuck out his hand to help him up. Samuel took it, and Alfred hauled him up to his feet. 

“So now what?” Samuel asked once they had both left the bathroom and thrown out Samuel’s old bandages and bloody clothes. Alfred had just tossed Samuel some fresh clothes to put on before going to sleep for the night.

Alfred thought about Samuel’s question for a moment. “Well, to be completely honest, I hadn’t quite thought it through this far. A part of me didn’t believe that you’d actually show up.”

Samuel sighed. He looked over the clothes in his hands, ran his fingers over the seams thoughtfully. “My states and people are losing their minds, Alfred. If I can help start to bring this to a clean end with as little bloodshed as possible and move us in the right direction, then I’d consider this trip a success.”

Alfred nodded. “I’d be inclined to agree with you.” He checked the time on the pocketwatch that lay on his bedside table. “Well if I’m going to be able to wake up anytime before noon then I’ve got to get to sleep.”

“Sure,” Samuel said as he threw on the new shirt and pants. He snatched his dirty jacket from where it hung on the back of a chair and made to lay down in the corner, but Alfred put out a hand and stopped him. He paused, then grabbed a blanket and pillow from the bed. 

“At least take the couch.” He jerked his head in the direction of the windows, where the couch was positioned between them. “And these. I won’t have you sleeping on the cold floor, that’s ridiculous.”

Samuel watched Alfred’s face for a minute, then took the pillow and blanket with a shy smile.

-x-x-x-

“Hey, have you got a spare razor around here?”

Samuel’s strangely chipper voice burrowed under the mound of blankets over Alfred’s head to wake him up. With a groan, Alfred peeked out from under the covers and glanced at the windows. The sun’s light was just breaking over the horizon and was just starting to filter in through the curtains. His hand smacked around the bedside table for his pocketwatch, and once he finally wrapped his fingers around it, he drew it close to his face to see what time it was.

There was a short pause before Alfred could muster any sort of words. Eventually, he got a sentence pulled together. 

“Have you lost your mind?” he growled from under the covers.

“I fail to see how the specific whereabouts of my thoughts have any bearing over the location of a spare razor blade,” Samuel joked. He poked his head out of the bathroom, a stupid grin spread over his face. “Come on, get up sleepy head! We’re wasting daylight!”

“There isn’t any daylight  _ available _ yet for us to waste, you idiot,” Alfred snapped.

“Oh come on, there’s no need to be sour!” Samuel walked over to the side of the bed and put his hands on his hips, waiting for Alfred to get up.

When Alfred made no moves toward climbing out of his cocoon of warm blankets, only burying himself into the mattress more, Samuel knew that he would have to resort to desperate measures. 

The second the covers flew off the bed, Alfred curled into a tight ball in the middle of the mattress. “Go away,” came a groan from somewhere inside the tangle of limbs. “And give me back the blankets! It’s freaking cold in here!”

“Can’t do that,” Samuel chided as he strode to the other side of the room, the covers held in his fist. He really was trying his best to keep a straight face, but his smile still managed to break through. “We’ve got too much to do while I’m here, and I can’t afford to let a moment go to waste.”

Alfred glared at Samuel for a tense moment, then sighed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He begrudgingly pushed himself upright into a sitting position on the mattress and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He ran his fingers through his hair, stretched his arms for a moment, then his back. After dragging his feet for as long as physically possible, Alfred slid out of bed and stalked to the bathroom to get Samuel the spare razor that he had asked for. Samuel watched all of this from where he stood in the corner, shaking his head.

After digging through the cabinets, Alfred emerged with his query. As he smacked the flat blade into Samuel’s waiting palm, he eyed the ragged and smirking blond before him. “You’re one of those…” he paused to look Samuel up and down one more time before he finished his thought, “ _ morning people,  _ aren’t you?”

Samuel’s eyebrow shot up. “Like that’s a bad thing?”

Alfred narrowed his eyes and held Samuel’s gaze. “I actually thought that we couldn’t get any more different. Boy was I ever wrong. And wipe that stupid smirk off your face, it makes you look creepy.”

Alfred threw a shirt on and left the room to hunt down a pot of coffee. He was chased out by Samuel’s rumbling and bemused chuckle, which was hot on his heels. 

Alone in the room and with only a razor for company, Samuel returned to the bathroom. He set the razor on the vanity and then looked up at the mirror that hung over the washbasin. For a long time, Samuel stared at the reflection in the mirror, and the scraggly man stared back at him. He searched his eyes, the lines in his face, the weariness that overwhelmed his features. 

“When did I become this way?” he asked the man in the mirror, but the reflection just stared back, speechless and without answers.

Suddenly, Samuel’s face became hard. He poured a pitcher of water into the basin. He didn’t care that water sloshed out of the basin and splashed on the floor. He hastily dunked his face into it, grabbed the shaving cream, lathered his face with the cream using a brush, and snatched the razor up into his hand. There was no hesitation. He raised the blade and dragged it down from his cheekbone to his jaw. One swipe was followed immediately by another and another, until every hair was cleanly shaven from his face. He poured some clean water and washed off his face once more, then straightened up to get a view of himself again.

Something shifted inside his heart as he gazed into the mirror. Something new and alive. Something that he hadn’t felt inside of himself for a very long time. 

In the mirror staring back at him was no longer the weary and sorrowful Samuel that would roll over for his states. In the mirror was the Sammy that he used to be, back when he was a brand-new nation. On his face played his joy. In his heart his fire for humanity was starting to be rekindled. His happy-go-lucky spirit that had to be squelched in the name of rebellion began to make an appearance one more.

The kid that he once was could now finally lift his head once more without fear.

Sammy tried on a smile. It wasn’t a cocky smile, nor was it a condescending grin like he had grown used to tacking on. No, it was a true smile. It was the smile of a kid with his whole life ahead of him, knowing that nothing bad could ever happen to him as long as that smile graced his features and the sun still shone in the heavens.

_ I’m back,  _ a voice in his mind sang.  _ At long last, I’m finally back. _

-x-x-x-

Alfred and Sammy waited in a sitting room of sorts in a different wing of the White House. Well, what was actually happening was that Alfred sat cross-legged in one of the stuffed chairs and Sammy paced from one wall to the other, sat in a chair for a moment, then jumped back to his feet to resume pacing. This had been going on for about ten minutes now. 

“What are you so nervous about?” Alfred asked the blur that was Sammy. “I’m sure that we can figure something out, no need for you to wear a hole in the carpet over it.”

“I don’t know,” Sammy murmured. “I’m just…” He paused before completing his thought. “I’m just afraid, I guess.”

Hearing the word ‘afraid’ come out of Sammy’s mouth was certainly new, and Alfred almost didn’t want to ask what exactly he was afraid of, but he did anyway.

Samuel absentmindedly slowed to a halt and thought for a moment before he voiced his answer. “I think that I’m afraid that he’ll only see my past, not me as I really am now, you know? I don't want that to be the only thing people see when they look at me, and that's not how I want to be remembered by.”

Alfred nodded, but waved the idea away. “You really shouldn’t worry, because I’ll vouch for you. I’ll explain everything so that he’ll understand.”

“But everything that y’all know is the bad stuff, the real me got lost so long ago and I hardly even know who I am myself and I–”

He stopped when Alfred stood up and grasped him firmly by the shoulders. Sammy winced but met Alfred’s eyes despite it. They were a steady blue, a nice contrast to his jumpy sea-green ones. When Alfred was sure he had Sammy’s attention, he spoke evenly to him. “Just let me handle it. Do you trust that I can do that?”

Sammy held his breath for a few seconds. His brain went blank. The thought of someone taking up for him was strange indeed, so strange that his mind nearly shorted out. 

“Sammy,” Alfred said, “can you trust me?”

A few seconds passed before he ran his hand over his hair and ponytail absentmindedly, then rubbed his freshly shaven jaw. His eyes bounced around all of the corners of the room and off of every piece of furniture before he responded in a shaky voice. 

“Alright. I’ll trust you.”

As a fellow nation who had once been in his shoes, Alfred knew exactly how difficult it was for Sammy to utter those words. Having Sammy’s trust was no small matter, and he did not intend to betray it.

Alfred felt like he needed to set Sammy’s mind at ease, so he added one last phrase. 

“Don’t forget, even if there’s no one else, I’ll always have your back.”

Sammy could have sworn that his heart swelled to three times its size in that very moment. No one had ever said something that to him before. No one had ever voiced that they would support him like this. It made him feel safe, which was something he had honestly never truly felt before. A smile started to pull on the corners of his mouth but was wiped away by the sudden sound of a door opening across the room.

Sammy nearly jumped out of his skin at the noise. His eyes flew open as wide as saucers and his body instinctively leapt in front of Alfred, pushing him back, and his hand went immediately to his right hip. In the scuffle, Alfred knew exactly what was happening, as he had been experiencing symptoms after the Revolution was over. It only took a fraction of a second to see telltale signs and put them all together. Sammy’s rigid body but shaking hands, his pallor, the look of terror on his face, him grabbing for a gun that wasn’t there, and the nightmares that Alfred overheard coming from the couch last night. Some doctor had finally given this entity a name: Soldier’s Heart, and Alfred knew that Sammy had it too, and he had it bad. Alfred’s heart broke for him. When he looked past Sammy to see who had opened the door, his voice nearly jumped down the kid’s throat.

“Tad, what did I tell you about sneaking up on people?”

The young dark-headed boy, who would very soon turn ten years old, shrunk back into the shadows behind the door. His face made it obvious that he was hurt by Alfred’s tone and his words. 

“Not to do it,” he mumbled into the carpet as he dug his toe into the corner of a rug. 

Alfred sighed and pushed past Sammy to kneel in front of the boy. The two exchanged hushed words, and there was a lot of nodding on either side. Sammy had slowly started to recover from his scare, and now he started to really feel the awkwardness in the room. He chewed on his lip and looked around at all the furnishings in the room, then down at his shoes to intently study his shoddy shine job. For some reason, watching the two talk seemed like it was an intrusion on something extremely personal, so he settled for looking just about anywhere else. 

Eventually Alfred stood up again and led the boy by the hand to stand in front of Sammy. Still unsure of what was going on, Sammy cast his gaze to the side as the two came close. At the sound of Alfred’s voice, he looked up at Alfred. 

Face drawn and suddenly exhausted, Alfred knelt down so he was on the boy’s level and said, “Tad, I have someone very special to introduce to you. This is Mr. Samuel Jones. He’s special like me. You know what I do, right?”

Tad looked over at Alfred and answered him. “Yeah, you represent us. The Union.”

“Exactly,” Alfred responded. He then nodded in Sammy’s direction. “Mr. Jones here is the personification of the Confederacy, and he’s come all the way here to have a very special talk with your dad and I. I wanted to introduce you two to each other.”

At that, Sammy looked down at the kid that stood in front of him. Tad eyed him cautiously with a healthy dose of fear in his glare, and he scrutinized every inch of the tall blond stranger in front of him. Sammy couldn’t blame him, so he decided to try something that he figured may or may not help to put the boy at ease, at least a little bit. 

Sammy knelt down so he was nearly level with Tad’s face. His stripes angrily tugged at his raw skin, but he ignored them. He locked eyes with Tad and said with utmost sincerity, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tad.” He extended his hand for Tad to shake. Tad only looked him square in the eye, his expression like granite. From the corner of his eye, Sammy saw that Tad was holding onto Alfred’s hand tight enough to make his tiny knuckles white as a sheet. Sammy offered the boy a soft smile, one that made his eyes soften in a way that Alfred had never seen before. Alfred became convinced in that moment that the Samuel he had known before- the Samuel that was ruthless on the battlefield, cunning and cold- and the Sammy that now knelt before the President’s youngest son were entirely separate entities.

As the uncomfortable moments passed, Sammy started to notice Tad’s eyes begin to glisten. The boy tried to keep his face stoic, but his bottom lip soon began to quiver despite all of his efforts to shove his feelings back down inside of himself. He opened his mouth to say something, but it took a couple of tries before anything but tiny gasps could come out. Finally Tad spoke, his soft and wavering voice reaching forward to fill the space between himself and Sammy.

“I… I didn’t want… to believe him… But I think he was right all along…”

Samuel’s brow furrowed slightly in his confusion, but he kept his eyes locked onto Tad’s. He saw Alfred stand slowly and clamp a palm to his mouth. The boy continued after drawing a shaky breath. 

“William believed that despite everything that was happening… He believed that you were still good deep inside…” Tad let go of Alfred’s hand and tentatively reached forward to grasp Sammy’s tanned and calloused hand with both of his own. Sammy’s heart started to tumble down to his gut. He had heard about the death of William Lincoln back in February. The poor kid had died of typhoid fever. The whole Union mourned the death of the child. 

Tears started to well in Tad’s eyes and cascade over his long, dark eyelashes. The words were nearly impossible for him to get out now, but somehow he found the strength to push them out from where they were caught in his throat.

“Willie would have… I think he would have liked you.”

Immediately a sob broke free from somewhere deep inside Tad, and the boy fell limp against Sammy’s chest. Sammy wrapped Tad’s small frame tightly in his arms and let him cry on his shoulder. No one said anything for a long time. Sammy eventually glanced up at Alfred, half at a loss at the boy weeping in his arms and half wondering what he could do to mend this irreparable wound. Alfred only watched the proceedings from a few steps away, arms crossed and with silent tears streaming down his cheeks. 

It was a strange scene to witness, the youngest child of the President of the Union holding onto the personification of the enemy with everything he had in him. The boy’s small head rested wearily on the chest of the older man, and he listened to the heart of the Southerner pound steadily against his ear. It was the only thing that marked the time that passed in those moments. For a while, the lines between the blue North and gray South were blurred, and a picture of what could be was painted in a small room in a corner of the White House. 

This all came crashing down at the sound of a voice brimming with rage that boomed from the entrance of the room.

“Get your hands off of my son.”

-x-x-x-

Alfred could have sworn that the blood in his veins froze to ice at the sound of Lincoln’s voice. He slowly looked away from the two wide-eyed faces of Sammy and Tad to face the irate one that belonged to his President. With one hand tentatively raised, he started toward Lincoln.

“Sir, please, I can explain-”

“Shut up Alfred!”

Alfred instantly obeyed and stopped dead in his tracks. Only once before had he heard Lincoln use a tone as harsh as this, and nothing good had come out of the situation. Thinking back now, this plan of getting Sammy up to Washington seemed incredibly stupid.  _ Too late now,  _ he thought.  _ You made your bed, time to lay in it. _

“You,” Lincoln spat at Sammy as he strode across the room and yanked Tad away by the arm. “You nasty little Greyback!”

Sammy slowly got to his feet, but his fright was already apparent from the blood that rushed out of his face. Much to everyone’s shock, Lincoln didn’t stop his advance once he had cleared Tad out of the way. The President kept coming, and despite Alfred’s useless protests, he closed the gap between himself and Sammy. Lincoln’s right hand flew out and wrapped itself around Sammy’s throat, slamming the nation painfully against the wall with crushing force.

Somewhere in the background, Tad screamed. Alfred crossed the room in two strides to pull the two apart, but stopped when he saw a familiar calloused hand throw itself out in his path. It shook ever so slightly, but its message was clear as day.

Alfred’s eyes flickered up to the two faces of Lincoln and Sammy, only inches apart. Veins started to pop out on Sammy’s forehead, but he held Lincoln’s glare with no contest. Alfred looked down and saw Sammy’s left hand rested by his side. The blond’s breaths came in short, random, raspy spurts from parted lips as oxygen tried to fight its way past the fingers wrapped around his windpipe.

He wasn’t fighting it, not in the least. He was simply taking it, patiently waiting for his assailant to let go.

The air in the room seemed to be sucked out. The seconds that passed felt more like hours to everyone. Just as Alfred thought Sammy must be close to passing out, the President released him. Sammy nearly crumpled to the floor, but somehow managed to remain on his feet.

“Tad go to your room.”

The boy followed his father’s orders as soon as they hit his ears. Once Tad had left the room and the door was shut, Lincoln spoke to Alfred. He kept his eyes glued on Sammy to make sure he didn't move a muscle.

“Alfred. Explain. Now.”

Alfred’s eyes bounced between Lincoln and Sammy, but rested on Lincoln after a small nod from Sammy. The nod was the go-ahead that Alfred needed.

_ Tell him,  _ the nod said.  _ Tell him everything. _

“Sir, Samuel is here to talk about the end of this war.”

Lincoln paused and turned to face him, but his face was as hard and impossible to read as ever. Alfred took this as an opportunity to push further. 

“He… He’s ready to talk about-”

“I’m here to talk about surrender.”

Lincoln slowly turned around to face Sammy. As he looked across the miles between him and the newly-composed nation, a peculiar expression twisted his features. It was something like a mix between disbelief, disgust, and relief. He whipped back to Alfred. “Is this true?”

Alfred nodded. “Yes sir.”

Lincoln took a step back, then looked at Sammy again. 

“My states aren’t on board with this. They don’t even know I’m here.” Sammy ran a hand over his mussed ponytail and glanced down at the floor. “If they knew where I was…” He laughed, but it was hollow and sounded wrong coming out of his mouth now. However, the longer he laughed, the harder he laughed, until he was in near hysterics. Tears leaked out from his tightly shut eyes. He doubled over and held his sides as he tried to gasp for breath. Everything about the scene turned the stomachs of the two men who watched.

Finally Sammy was able to rein himself back in. He sighed deeply and looked past Lincoln and Alfred for a minute before focusing back on them once more. His response sent sharp pangs through Alfred’s chest.

“Let’s just say that you’d probably be hard pressed to ever hear from me again if my states knew I was talking to y'all.”

Heavy silence blanketed the room. It fell so thick on Alfred’s ears, he didn’t hear Lincoln’s response. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs.

“S-Sir?”

Lincoln didn’t face Alfred. He only stared at Sammy.

“I said that I’ll hear him out.” Now he glanced back to Alfred. “But that’s all I’m promising to do.” He paused before directing his next statement to Sammy. 

“This had better be good, boy.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Check out my tumblr at harleymariefanfictions.tumblr.com! Next chapter coming soon. <3  
> Update schedule: Wednesdays and Saturdays


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